O thou who passest through our valleys in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! Thou, O Summer, Oft pitchest here thy golden tent, and oft Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

Mutual forgiveness of each vice. Such are the Gates of Paradise.

Art degraded, Imagination denied.

I am under the direction of messengers from Heaven daily and nightly.

Thou fair-hair'd angel of the evening, Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!

And is he honest who resists his genius or conscience only for the sake of present ease or gratification

First thought is best in Art, second in other matters.