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"Tis born with all: the love of Nature's works
Is an ingredient in the compound, man,
Infused at the creation of the kind.
And, though the Almighty Maker has throughout
Discriminated each from each, by strokes
And touches of his hand, with so much art
Diversified, that two were never found
Twins at all points-yet this obtains in all,
That all discern a beauty in his works,
And all can taste them: minds that have been form
And tutor'd with a relish more exact,
But none without some relish, none unmoved.


Nature's voice is sweet
Wherever heard; her works, wherever seen,
Are might and beauty to the mind and eye;
To the lone heart, though oceans roll between,
She speaks of things that but with life can die.


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The World is too much with us. 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! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers ; For this, for every thing, 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 coming from the sea ; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.


Ministrations of Nature.

Healest thy wandering and distemper'd child !
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters;
Till he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and discordant thing
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
His angry spirit heald and harmonized
By the benignant touch of love and beauty.


Flowers, the Stars of Earth.
SPAKE full well, in language quaint and olden,

One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,
When he call’d the flowers, so blue and golden,

Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.
Stars they are, wherein we read our history,

As astrologers and seers of eld;
Yet not wrapp'd about with awful mystery,

Like the burning stars which they beheld.
Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,

God hath written in those stars above; But not less in the bright flowerets under us

Stands the revelation of his love. Bright and glorious is that revelation

Written all over this great world of ours ; Making evident our own creation,

In these stars of earth—these golden flowers. And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing,

Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part Of the self-same universal being,

Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. Gorgeous flowerets in the sun-light shining;

Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,
Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,

Buds that open only to decay;
Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,

Flaunting gaily in the golden light;
Large desires, with most uncertain issues ;

Tender wishes, blossoming at night! These in flowers and men are more than seeming ;

Workings are they of the self-same powers, Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,

Seeth in himself and in the flowers. Everywhere about us are they glowing,

Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born; Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing,

Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn;

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,

And in Summer's green-emblazon' field, But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,

In the centre of his brazen shield; Not alone in meadows and green alleys,

On the mountain-top, and by the brink Of sequester'd pools in woodland valleys,

Where the slaves of Nature stoop to drink; Not alone in her vast dome of glory,

Not on graves of bird and beast alone, But on old Cathedrals, high and hoary,

On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; In the cottage of the rudest peasant;

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, Speaking of the Past unto the Present,

Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers ; In all places, then, and in all seasons,

Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,

How akin they are to human things. And with child-like credulous affection

We behold their tender buds expand; Emblems of our own great resurrection, Emblems of the bright and better land.


The Primrose.
The milk-white blossoms of the thorn

Are waving o'er the pool,
Moved by the wind that breathes along

So sweetly and so cool.
The hawthorn clusters bloom above,

The primrose hides below,
And on the lonely passer-by
A modest glance doth throw !


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