A simple child. That lightly draws its breath. And feels its life in every limb. What should it know of death?
A power is passing from the earth.
For all things are less dreadful than they seem.
Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.
But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.