The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung To their first fault, and withered in their pride.
Was there nought better than to enjoy? No feat which, done, would make time break, And let us pent-up creatures through Into eternity, our due? No forcing earth teach heaven's employ?
God is the perfect poet.
Love is the energy of life.
The body sprang At once to the height, and stayed; but the soul,-no!
How good is man's life, the mere living! How fit to employ all the heart and the soul and the senses forever in joy!