The heart-sick faintness of the hope delayed!
Heaven know its time; the bullet has its billet
Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land.
What skilful limner e'er would choose To paint the rainbow's varying hues, Unless to mortal it were given To dip his brush in dyes of heaven?
We build statues out of snow, and weep to see them melt.
Look at a gown of gold, and you will at least get a sleeve of it.