Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more.

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains; and of all that we behold from this green earth.

The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.

Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect

In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.