Tis The Perception Of The Beautiful, A

The Keenest Pangs The Wretched Find Are Rapture To The Dreary Void, The Leafless Desert Of The Mind, The Waste Of Feelings Unemployed.

That Prose Is A Verse, And Verse Is A Prose; Convincing All, By Demonstrating Plain – Poetic Souls Delight In Prose Insane

So We'll Go No More A-roving So Late Into The Night, Though The Heart Still Be As Loving, And The Moon Still Be As Bright. For The Sword Outwears Its Sheath, And The Soul Outwears The Breast, And The Heart Must Pause To Breathe, And Love Itself Have Rest. Though The Night Was Made For Loving, And The Day Returns Too Soon, Yet We'll Go No More A-roving By The Light Of The Moon.

Mark! Where His Carnage And His Conquests Cease, He Makes A Solitude And Calls It-peace!

O Fame! If I Ever Took Delight In Thy Praises, Twas Less For The Sake Of Thy High-sounding Phrases, Than To See The Bright Eyes Of The Dear One Discover The Thought That I Was Not Unworthy To Love Her.