Thus with the year

Seasons return; but not to me returns

Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,

Or sight of vernal bloom or summer's rose,

Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;

But cloud instead, and ever-during dark

Surrounds me; from the cheerful ways of men

Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair

Presented with a universal blank

Of Nature's works, to me expung'd and raz'd,

And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book iii. Line 40.

No radiant pearl which crested Fortune wears,

No gem that twinkling hangs from Beauty's ears,

Not the bright stars which Night's blue arch adorn,

Nor rising suns that gild the vernal morn,

Shine with such lustre as the tear that flows

Down Virtue's manly cheek for others' woes.

Erasmus Darwin (1731-1802): The Botanic Garden. Part ii. Canto iii. Line 459.

One impulse from a vernal wood

May teach you more of man,

Of moral evil and of good,

Than all the sages can.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): The Tables Turned.