The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.

Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.

The child is the father of man.

For all things are less dreadful than they seem.

Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect

Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.

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