Come grow old with me. The best is yet to be.

I'll teach my boy the sweetest things; I'll teach him how the owlet sings.

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.

The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about; and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.

Truth takes no account of centuries.

His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.

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