O solitude! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place.
As when around the clear bright moon, the stars Shine in full splendor, and the winds are hush'd, The groves, the mountain-tops, the headland-heights Stand all apparent, not a vapor streaks The boundless blue, but ether open'd wide All glitters, and the shepherd's heart is cheer'd.
A hat not much the worse for wear.
In a fleshy tomb I am buried above ground.
God moves in mysterious ways His wonders to performs
From reveries so airy, from the toil Of dropping buckets into empty wells, And growing old in drawing nothing up.
Not a flower But shows some touch, in freckle, streak or stain, Of his unrivall'd pencil.
Visits are insatiable devourers of time, and fit only for those who, if they did not that, would do nothing.