One of those heavenly days that cannot die.
Wisdom and spirit of the Universe!
The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.
That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.
One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
Small service is true service, while it lasts.
And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.
A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
The clouds that gather round the setting sun do take a sober colouring from an eye that hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, to me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
To be young was very heaven!
The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
Take the sweet poetry of life away, and what remains behind?
Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.
Truth takes no account of centuries.
A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk; and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
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