Part i. xxxiii.
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers.
Part i. xxxv.
'Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower
Of Faith, and round the Sufferer's temples bind
Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower,
And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
Part ii. xxxvi.
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
Ecclesiastical Sonnets.
Part iii. v. Walton's Book of Lives.
The feather, whence the pen
Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men,
Dropped from an Angel's wing.