But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.

And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.

But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.

In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .

He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.

But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

In years that bring the philosophic mind.