And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

The time will come, when thou shalt lift thine eyes To watch a long-drawn battle in the skies. While aged peasants, too amazed for words, Stare at the flying fleets of wondrous birds.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude.