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More quotes by Edward Coote Pinkney
Look out upon the stars, my love,
And shame them with thine eyes.
The winds are awed, nor dare to breathe aloud;
The air seems never to have borne a cloud,
Save where volcanoes send to heav'n their curl'd
And solemn smokes, like altars of the world.
Italy (1825)
I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,
A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements
And kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air,
'Tis less of earth than heaven.
Affections are as thoughts to her, the measure of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrancy, the freshness, of young flowers;
And lonely passions, changing oft, so fill her, she appears
The image of themselves by turns,—the idol of past years!
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