When day is done, and clouds are low, And flowers are honey-dew, And Hesper's lamp begins to glow Along the western blue; And homeward wing the turtle-doves, Then comes the hour the poet loves.
White bud! that in meek beauty dost lean thy cloistered cheek as pale as moonlight snow, thou seem'st, beneath thy huge, high leaf of green, an Eremite beneath his mountain's brow.
Come, evening gale! the crimson rose is dropping for thy sighe of dewe; the hyacinthe wooes thy kisse to close in slumberre sweete its eye of blue.
His words seem'd oracles that pierc'd their bosoms; and each man would turn and gaze in wonder on his neighbour's face, that with the like dumb wonder answer'd him. You could have heard the beating of your pulses while he spoke.
How like a queen comes forth the lonely Moon From the slow opening curtains of the clouds Walking in beauty to her midnight throne!
Oh! that fear when the heart longs to know, what it is death to hear.
There are few things more singular than the blindness which, in matters of the highest importance to ourselves, often hides the truth that is plain as noon to all other eyes.
Nature's first great title--mind.
All history is but a romance unless it is studied as an example.