I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.

What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.

In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.

When it is moving on luxurious wings, The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings.

To one who has been long in city pent, ’Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.

To Hope "When by my solitary hearth I sit, And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom; When no fair dreams before my 'mind's eye' flit, And the bare heath of life presents no bloom; Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head.

It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.