A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.

The groves were God's first temples.

The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep tonight.

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.

The little windflower, whose just opened eye is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.

Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully.

Where hast thou wandered, gentle gale, to find the perfumes thou dost bring?

Weep not that the world changes - did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep.

Eloquence is the poetry of prose.

Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster - children into strength and athletic proportion.