Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
How is it that you live, and what is it you do?
Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
To be young was very heaven!
A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
Small service is true service, while it lasts.
Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.
Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
The child is the father of man.
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.
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.
Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk; and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
Death is the quiet haven of us all.
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
Departing summer hath assumed An aspect tenderly illumed, The gentlest look of spring; That calls from yonder leafy shade Unfaded, yet prepared to fade, A timely carolling.
Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.
My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.
And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.
Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.
But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?
Dreams, books, are each a world.
To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.
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