May books and nature be their early joy!
The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.
Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?
poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge
This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.