Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'

Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!

Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.

But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant