What is beauty, saith my sufferings, then?
If all the pens that ever poets held
had fed the feelings of their masters' thoughts,
and every sweetness that inspired their hearts,
their minds, and muses on admired themes;
if all the heavenly quintessence they still
from their immortal flowers of poetry,
wherein, as in a mirror, we perceive
the highest reaches of human wit;
if these had made one poem's period,
and all combined in beauty's worthiness,
yet should there hover in their restless heads
one thought, one grace, one wonder, at the least,
which into words no virtue can digest.
"Tamburlaine" Christopher Marlowe
A land of streams! Some, like a downward smoke,
slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;
and through wavering lights and shadows
rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
They saw the gleaming river seaward flow
from the inner land: far off, three mountain tops
three silent pinnacles of aged snow,
stood sunset flushed: and dew'd with showery
up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.
"The Lotus Eaters" Tennyson
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
now winks the gold fin in the porphyry font:
the firefly wakens: waken thou with me.
Now rings the woodland loud and long,
the distance takes a lovelier hue,
and drown'd in yonder living blue,
the lark becomes a sightless song.