My apprehensions come in crowds I dread the rustling of the grass The very shadows of the clouds Have power to shake me as they pass I question things and do not find One that will answer to my mind And all the world appears unkind.
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The reason firm, the temperate will. Endurance, foresight, strength and skill.William Wordsworth
Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger -- to let fall a tear And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.
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And yet not choice but habit rules the unreflecting herd.
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Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
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Hopes, what are they - Beads of morning Strung on slender blades of grass Or a spider's web adorning In a straight and treacherous pass.
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Whither is fled the visionary gleam; Where is it now, the glory and the dream.
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