Who is more happy, when, with heart’s content,
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
And gentle tale of love and languishment?

Returning home at evening, with an ear
Catching the notes of Philomel,—­an eye
Watching the sailing cloudlet’s bright career,

He mourns that day so soon has glided by: 
E’en like the passage of an angel’s tear
That falls through the clear ether silently.

J. Keats.

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: 
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! 
The Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.—­Great God!  I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn,
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

William Wordsworth.

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodg’d with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide. 
Doth God exact day labor, light deny’d,
I fondly ask? but patience to prevent
That murmur soon replies, God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best:  his state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.

John Milton.

How do I love thee?  Let me count the ways. 
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace. 
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise;
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith;
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—­I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—­and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

Elizabeth Barrett BBOWNING.

IS THERE, FOR HONEST POVERTY.

I.

Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a’ that? 
The coward slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a’ that! 
For a’ that, and a’ that,
Our toils obscure, and a’ that;
The rank is but the guinea-stamp,
The man’s the gowd for a’ that.