Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind.
The man that makes a character, makes foes.
To know the world, not love her, is thy point; She gives but little, nor that little, long.
Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.
There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.
What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature; around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!