The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.
That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.
A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.
Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .