No motion has she now, no force; she neither hears nor sees; rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.

Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.

A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.

Then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils.

But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.

The child shall become father to the man.

But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.