There Is In Souls A

How Fleet Is A Glance Of The Mind! Compared With The Speed Of Its Flight, The Tempest Itself Lags Behind, And The Swift-winged Arrows Of Light.

My Soul Is Sick With Every Day's Report Of Wrong And Outrage With Which Earth Is Filled.

Forgot The Blush That Virgin Fears Impart To Modest Cheeks, And Borrowed One From Art.

His Wit Invites You By His Looks To Come, But When You Knock, It Never Is At Home.

Nature, Exerting An Unwearied Power, Forms, Opens, And Gives Scent To Every Flower; Spreads The Fresh Verdure Of The Field, And Leads The Dancing Naiads Through The Dewy Meads.