The hills, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun. - William Cullen Bryant

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief,
And the year smiles as it draws near its death.

Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase
Are fruits of innocence and blessedness.

I would make Reason my guide, but she should sometimes sit Patiently by the way-side, while I traced The mazes of the pleasant wilderness Around me. She should be my counsellor, But not my tyrant. For the spirit needs Impulses from a deeper source than hers, And there are motions, in the mind of man, That she must look upon with awe. I bow Reverently to her dictates, but not less Hold to the fair illusions of old time — lllusions that shed brightness over life, And glory over nature.