Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.
But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.
His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.