Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be...

The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest— Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast.

Science appears but what in truth she is,/ Not as our glory and our absolute boast,/ But as a succedaneum, and a prop/ To our infirmity.

We have within ourselves
Enough to fill the present day with joy,
And overspread the future years with hope.

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;

[...]the stately and slow-moving Turk,
With freight of slippers piled beneath his arm.