To touch the quick.

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure Thrill the deepest notes of wo.

I sit with my toes in a brook, And if any one axes forwhy? I hits them a rap with my crook, For 'tis sentiment does it, says I.

Too quick a sense of constant infelicity.

And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns.

It seem'd as if each thought and look And motion were that minute chain'd Fast to the spot such root she took, And--like a sunflower by a brook, With face upturn'd--so still remain'd!