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

Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.

She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight, A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair, Like twilights too her dusky hair, But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn.

Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.

That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.

The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.

The child is father of the man.