The Hues Of Bliss More Brightly Glow,

The Language Of The Age Is Never The Language Of Poetry, Except Among The French, Whose Verse, Where The Thought Or Image Does Not Support It, Differs In Nothing From Prose.

We Frolic While 'tis May.

T'was Spring, T'was Summer, All Was Gay Now Autumn Bears A Cloud Brow The Flowers Of Spring Are Swept Way And Summer Fruits Desert The Bough

Poetry Is Thoughts That Breathe, And Words That Burn.

They Hear A Voice In Every Wind, And Snatch A Fearful Joy.