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But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.

A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.

Three sleepless nights I passed in sounding on, Through words and things, a dim and perilous way.

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

On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love.

That best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.

Hail to thee, far above the rest In joy of voice and pinion! Thou, linnet! in thy green array, Presiding spirit here to-day, Dost lead the revels of the May; And this is thy dominion.

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.

This flower that first appeared as summer's guest Preserves her beauty 'mid autumnal leaves And to her mournful habits fondly cleaves.

Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The Ploughboy is whooping--anon--anon! There's joy in the mountains: There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone.

Up from the sea, the wild north wind is blowing Under the sky's gray arch; Smiling I watch the shaken elm boughs, knowing It is the wind of March.

Sweet Mercy! to the gates of Heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.

I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.

For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.

And beauty, for confiding youth, Those shocks of passion can prepare That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.

The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an Angel's wing.

Why should not grave Philosophy be styled. Herself, a dreamer of a kindred stock, A dreamer, yet more spiritless and dull?

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.

What is pride? A whizzing rocket that would emulate a star.