The groves were God's first temples

That rolls to its appointed end

Yet will that beauteous image make The dreary sea less drear And thy remembered smile will wake The hope that tramples fear

Weep not that the world changes - did it keep a stable, changeless state, it were cause indeed to weep

Poetry is that art which selects and arranges the symbols of thought in such a manner as to excite the imagination the most powerfully and delightfully