I love snow, snow, and all the forms of radiant frost.
I consider poetry very subordinate to moral and political science.
No more let life divide what death can join together.
This lake exceeds anything I ever beheld in beauty.
January gray is here, like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier, march with grief doth howl and rave, and April weeps -- but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers.
A pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift.