Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
By happy chance we saw A twofold image: on a grassy bank A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood Another and the same!
Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.
Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.