Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest and best minds.
There is a harmony In autumn, and a lustre in its sky, Which through the summer is not heard or seen, As if it could not be, as if it had not been!
War is the statesman`s game, the priest`s delight, the lawyer`s jest, the hired assassin`s trade.
If winter comes, can spring be far behind?