Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.

And I am happy when I sing.

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.

Miss not the occasion; by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.

Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.