Like an army defeated the snow hath retreated.

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

That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.

That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.

I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.

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.

I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.