The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.

The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about; and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.

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

Write to me frequently & the longest letters possible; never mind whether you have facts or no to communicate; fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

Wisdom sits with children round her knees.

The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!

In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration: - feelings, too, Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love.