Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.

The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket;--lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. An, nutbrown partridges! An, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.

Oh, nature's noblest gift, my grey goose quill, Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from the parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men.

There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away.

I have no consistency, except in politics; and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!

That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane