My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard. Thus fares it still in our decay: And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what age takes away Than what it leaves behind.

A mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.

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But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart,
And passing even into my purer mind
With tranquil restoration; — feelings too
Of unremembered pleasures; such, perhaps,
As have made no trivial influence
On that best portion of a good man's life;
His little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love.

Love betters what is best