What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.
Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.