Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
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!
And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
A brotherhood of venerable trees.
The budding rose above the rose full blown.