Passing thus with time away, The sweet gifts of youth decay ; Fleet their blooms, thus one by one, Till their very form is gone ; Memory left but to … - Letitia Elizabeth Landon

Philosophers are moral, and poets are picturesque about the country.

—I never saw more perfect loveliness.
It ask'd, it had no aid from dress: her robe
Was white, and simply gather'd in such folds
As suit a statue: neck and arms were bare;
The black hair was unbound, and like a veil
Hung even to her feet; she held a lute,
And, as she paced the ancient gallery, waked
A few wild chords, and murmur'd low sweet words,
But scarcely audible, as if she thought
Rather than spoke:—the night, the solitude,
Fill'd the young Pythoness with poetry.

Which is the best,
Beauty and glory in a passionate clime,
Mingled with thunder, tempest; — or the calm
Of skies that scarcely change — which, at the least,
If much of shine they have not, have no storms?