There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.
God made the country, and man made the town.
There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.
Absence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair.
How sweet, how passing sweet, is solitude! But grant me still a friend in my retreat, whom I may whisper, solitude is sweet.
Strength may wield the ponderous spade, May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home; But elegance, chief grace the garden shows, And most attractive, is the fair result Of thought, the creature of a polished mind.