Trials Make The Promise Sweet, Trials Give

My Soul Is Sick With Every Day's Report Of Wrong And Outrage With Which Earth Is Filled.

Made Poetry A Mere Mechanic Art.

Is Base In Kind, And Born To Be A Slave.

Nature, Exerting An Unwearied Power, Forms, Opens, And Gives Scent To Every Flower; Spreads The Fresh Verdure Of The Field, And Leads The Dancing Naiads Through The Dewy Meads.

A Fretful Temper Will Divide The Closest Knot That May Be Tied, By Ceaseless Sharp Corrosion; A Temper Passionate And Fierce May Suddenly Your Joys Disperse At One Immense Explosion.