The memory of the just survives in Heaven.

Me this unchartered freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance-desires: My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.

A simple Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?

Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.

I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.

To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more.

The Child is father of the Man.

That best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love.

You must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.