He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all. - Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, О sovran Blanc!

Be that blind bard who on the Chian strand,
By those deep sounds possessed with inward light,
Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssey
Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.

Tho' veiled in spires of myrtle wreath,
Love is a sword that cuts its sheath,
And thro' the clefts, itself has made,
We spy the flashes of the Blade!

But thro' the clefts, itself has made,
We likewise see Love's flashing blade,
By rust consumed or snapt in twain:
And only Hilt and Stump remain.

- Song