Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.

Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science

Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.

Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?

A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

Delivered from the galling yoke of time.