At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.
Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.
The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.
The eye— it cannot choose but see; we cannot bid the ear be still; our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.
The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
How is it that you live, and what is it you do?