I Am Not Of That Feather, To

When I Bestride Him, I Soar, I Am A Hawk: He Trots The Air; The Earth Sings When He Touches It; The Basest Horn Of His Hoof Is More Musical Than The Pipe Of Hermes.

There Is Special Providence In The Fall Of A Sparrow.

Oh God! That One Might Read The Book Of Fate, And See The Revolution Of The Times Make Mountains Level, And The Continent, Weary Of Solid Firmness, Melt Itself Into The Sea.

The Lunatic, The Lover, And The Poet, Are Of Imagination All Compact.

What Drink'st Thou Oft, Instead Of Homage Sweet, But Poisoned Flattery?