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 give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 
Wordsworth. 
Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, 
Some boundless contiguity of shade, 
^Yhere rumour of oppression and deceit, 
Of unsuccessful or successful war, 
Might never reach one more. 
COWPER. 
