Any Fool May Write A

Where Ignorance Is Bliss, 'tis Folly To Be Wise.

Full Many A Gem Of Purest Ray Serene The Dark Unfathom'd Caves Of Ocean Bear: Full Many A Flower Is Born To Blush Unseen, And Waste Its Sweetness On The Desert Air.

Rich With The Spoils Of Time.

The Meanest Flowret Of The Vale, / The Simplest Note That Swells The Gale, / The Common Sun, The Air, And Skies, / To Him Are Opening Paradise.

The Language Of The Age Is Never The Language Of Poetry, Except Among The French, Whose Verse, Where The Thought Or Image Does Not Support It, Differs In Nothing From Prose.