Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.

I am always most religious upon a sunshiny day.

And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, In small fine china cups, came in at last. Gold cups of filigree, made to secure the hand from burning, underneath them place. Cloves, cinnamon and saffron, too, were boiled Up with the coffee, which, I think, they spoiled.

No hand can make the clock strike for me the hours that are passed.

The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August

For a man to become a poet (witness Petrarch and Dante), he must be in love, or miserable.

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave, Then some leap'd overboard with fearful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave.