Poetry Is Thoughts That Breathe, And Words

Scatter Plenty O'er A Smiling Land.

Where'er The Oak's Thick Branches Stretch A Broader Browner Shade; Where'er The Rude And Moss-grown Beech O'er-canopies The Glade, Beside Some Water's Rushy Brink With Me The Muse Shall Sit, And Think.

Ye Towers Of Julius, London's Lasting Shame, With Many A Foul And Midnight Murder Fed.

Youth Smiles Without Any Reason. It Is One Of Its Chiefest Charms.

Bright-eyed Fancy, Hov'ring O'er, Scatters From Her Pictured Urn Thoughts That Breathe And Words That Burn.