Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.
The rapture of pursuing is the prize the vanquished gain.
Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.
I love thee, as the good love heaven.
The dawn is not distant, nor is the night starless; love is eternal.
As to the pure mind all things are pure, so to the poetic mind all things are poetical.