The rudiment of verse may, possibly, be found in the spondee.

...for her whom in life thou dids't abhor, in death thou shalt adore

Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.

Mournful and Never-ending Remembrance.

I never can hear a crowd of people singing and gesticulating, all together, at an Italian opera, without fancying myself at Athens, listening to that particular tragedy, by Sophocles, in which he introduces a full chorus of turkeys, who set about bewailing the death of Meleager.

If the propositions of this Discourse are tenable, the "state of progressive collapse" is precisely that state in which alone we are warranted in considering All Things.

The plots of God are perfect. The Universe is a plot of God.