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.

We bow our heads before Thee, and we laud, And magnify thy name Almighty God! But man is thy most awful instrument, In working out a pure intent.

Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.

The budding rose above the rose full blown.

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

Faith is a passionate intuition.

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