Wonder is involuntary praise.
There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.
Where, where for shelter shall the guilty fly, When consternation turns the good man pale?
A land of levity is a land of guilt.
What ardently we wish, we soon believe.
Age should fly concourse, cover in retreat defects of judgment, and the will subdue; walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore of that vast ocean it must sail so soon.