There is something about poetry beyond prose logic, there is mystery in it, not to be explained but admired.

Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven.

When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees

But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.

Men should press forward, in fame's glorious chase; Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.

Where, where for shelter shall the guilty fly, When consternation turns the good man pale?

Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?