One of those heavenly days that cannot die.
That to this mountain-daisy’s self were known The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown On the smooth surface of this naked stone!
The mightiest lever known to the world: imagination.
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And ’tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
The softest breeze to fairest flowers gives birth: Think not that Prudence dwells in dark abodes, She scans the future with the eye of gods.
A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.
That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.
I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.
Meek Walton’s heavenly memory.
The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
Stop thinking for once in your life!
The Eagle, he was lord above.
As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.
The first cuckoo’s melancholy cry.
Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music; there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident tomorrows.
If thou art beautiful, and youth and thought endue thee with all truth-be strong; – be worthy of the grace of God.
The Primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves; And thus for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives.