The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune.

The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.

Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.

That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.

How many undervalue the power of simplicity ! But it is the real key to the heart.

To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.