To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.

Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.

Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.

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

The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.

This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.