Forever is comprised of nows.
Drunkards of summer are quite as frequent as Drunkards of wine.
Love is its own rescue; for we, at our supremest, are but its trembling emblems.
A precious, mouldering pleasure 't is, to meet an antique book, In just the dress his century wore; A privilege I think.
How softly summer shuts, without the creaking of a door.
Sweet Skepticism of the Heart That knows and does not know And tosses like a Fleet of Balm Affronted by the snow.