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Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;I only have relinquish'd one delightTo live beneath your more habitual sway.I love the Brooks which down their channels fret,Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they;The innocent brightness of a new-born DayIs lovely yet;The Clouds that gather round the setting sunDo take a sober colouring from an eyeThat 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 giveThoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
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