Once in a stately passion / I cried with desperate grief,/ 'O Lord, my heart is black with guile,/ Of sinners I am chief.'
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Absence, with all its pains, is, by this charming moment, wiped away.
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Ingratitude is treason to mankind.
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A little, round, fat, oily man of God.
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The City is of Night; perchance of Death, But certainly of Night; for never there...
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For life is but a dream whose shapes return, Some frequently, some seldom, some by night And some by day,
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More firm and sure the hand of courage strikes, when it obeys the watchful eye of caution.
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I know no subject more elevating, more amazing, more ready to the poetical enthusiasm, the philosophical reflection, and the moral sentiment than the works of nature. Where can we meet such variety, such beauty, such magnificence?
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And all sad scenes and thoughts and feelings vanish In that sweet sleep no power can ever banish,...
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