How happy is he born or taught,
That serveth not another’s will;
Whose armor is his honest thought
And simple truth his utmost skill!
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.
You meaner beauties of the night,
That poorly satisfy our eyes
More by your number than your light;
You common people of the skies,—
What are you when the moon shall rise?
An itch of disputing will prove the scab of churches.
I am but a gatherer and disposer of other men’s stuff.
Idle time not idly spent.
Now all nature seemed in love, and birds had drawn their valentines.