Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.
That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.
Minds that have nothing to confer find little to perceive.
The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains; and of all that we behold from this green earth.
The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.
May books and nature be their early joy!
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.
As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow; Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.
Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk; and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.
Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.
The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled; And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!
In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.
Yet tears to human suffering are due; And mortal hopes defeated and o’erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.
And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.
There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.
His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.
Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.
The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.
And suddenly all your troubles melt away, all your worries are gone, and it is for no reason other than the look in your partner’s eyes. Yes, sometimes life and love really is that simple.