And mighty poets in their misery dead.
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
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.
Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.