Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.

In the evening, I walked alone down to the Lake by the side of Crow Park after sunset and saw the solemn coloring of night draw on, the last gleam of sunshine fading away on the hilltops, the seep serene of the asters, and the long shadows of the mountains thrown across them, till they nearly touched the hithermost shore. At distance hear the murmur of many waterfalls not audible in the day-time. Wished for the moon, but she was dark to me and silent, hid in her vacant interlunar cave.

To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

There are certain scenes that would awe an atheist into belief, without the help of other argument.

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.