All High Poetry Is Infinite; It Is

Lost Echo Sits Amid The Voiceless Mountains, And Feeds Her Grief.

Thou Shoreless Flood, Which In Thy Ebb And Flow Claspest The Limits Of Mortality.

Many A Green Isle Needs Must Be In The Deep Wide Sea Of Misery, Or The Mariner, Worn And Wan, Never Thus Could Voyage On.

Nothing Wilts Faster Than Laurels That Have Been Rested Upon.

No Man Has A Right To Disturb The Public Peace, By Personally Resisting The Execution Of A Law However Bad. He Ought To Acquiesce, Using At The Same Time The Utmost Powers Of His Reason, To Promote Its Repeal.