There's not a string attuned to mirth But has its chord in melancholy. - Thomas Hood

Each cloud-capt mountain is a holy altar; An organ breathes in every grove;
And the full heart 's a Psalter,
Rich in deep hymn of gratitude and love.

I remember, I remember
The fir-trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from Heaven
Than when I was a boy.

Seem'd washing his hands with invisible soap
In imperceptible water.