For Art May Err, But Nature Cannot

She, Though In Full-blown Flower Of Glorious Beauty, Grows Cold Even In The Summer Of Her Age.

For My Part, I Can Compare Her (a Gossip) To Nothing But The Sun; For, Like Him, She Knows No Rest, Nor Ever Sets In One Place But To Rise In Another.

I'm A Little Wounded, But I Am Not Slain; I Will Lay Me Down To Bleed A While. Then I'll Rise And Fight Again.

An Horrible Stillness First Invades Our Ear, And In That Silence We The Tempest Fear.

It Is Sufficient To Say, According To The Proverb, That Here Is God's Plenty.