Yet Hold It More Humane,

His Sleep Was Aery Light, From Pure Digestion Bred.

The Leaf Was Darkish, And Had Prickles On It, But In Another Country, As He Said, Bore A Bright Golden Flow'r, But Not In This Soil; Unknown, And Like Esteem'd, And The Dull Swain Treads On It Daily With His Clouted Shoon.

Those Whom Reason Hath Equalled, Force Hath Made Supreme

Ah Gentle Pair, Ye Little Think How Nigh Your Change Approaches, When All These Delights Will Vanish And Deliver Ye To Woe, More Woe, The More Your Taste Is Now Of Joy.

Beauty Is God's Handwriting-a Wayside Sacrament.