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The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.
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'How is it that you live, and what is it you do?'
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Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more
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She was a phantom of delight When first she gleam'd upon my sight A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament.
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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. The soul that rises with us, our life's star, hath had elsewhere its setting, and comet from afar: not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come from God, who is our home.
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