The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.

The moving accident is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.

Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.

Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains; and of all that we behold from this green earth.

For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.

Faith is, necessary to explain anything, and to reconcile the foreknowledge of God with human evil.