Father to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find.
The best portion of a good man’s life: his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
– William Wordsworth
Sweet childish days, that were as long As twenty days are now.
The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising: There are forty feeding like one!
Father! – to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
For all the startled scaly tribes that slink Into his coverts, and each fearless link Of dancing insects forged upon his breast.
Faith is a passionate intuition.
Father!–to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
For by superior energies; more strict affiance in each other; faith more firm in their unhallowed principles, the bad have fairly earned a victory over the weak, the vacillating, inconsistent good.
With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.