The booby father craves a booby son, And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.
Like our shadows, our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.
There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.
The soft whispers of the God in man.
On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows.
Britannia's shame! There took her gloomy flight, On wing impetuous, a black sullen soul . Less base the fear of death than fear of life. O Britain! infamous for suicide.