But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?

At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.

Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge - it is as immortal as the heart of man.

Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.

As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.