All poetry is putting the infinite within the finite.

When is man strong until he feels alone?

Where the apple reddens never pry - lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I.

Generations pass while some tree stands, and old families last not three oaks.

A people is but the attempt of many To rise to the completer life of one; And those who live as models for the mass Are singly of more value than they all.

Though Rome's gross yoke Drops off, no more to be endured, Her teaching is not so obscured By errors and perversities, That no truth shines athwart the lies.

Lost, lost! one moment knelled the woe of years.