But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?
The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
Love betters what is best
The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.