The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.
My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.
That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
A brotherhood of venerable trees.
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.