The busy shuttle comes and goes Across the rhymes, and deftly weaves A tissue out of autumn leaves, With here a thistle, there a rose. T. B. Aldrich.Cloth of Gold, Proem.
Poets are never young, in one sense. Their delicate ear hears the far-off whispers of eternity, which coarser souls must travel towards for scores of years before their dull sense is touched by them. A moments insight is sometimes worth a lifes experience. Holmes.The Professor at the Breakfast Table, Chap. X.
Sing! there shall silence grow in earth and heaven, A silence of deep awe and wondering; For, listening gladly, bend the angels, even To hear a mortal angel sing. Lowell.The Poet.