Be sober, and to doubt prepense,
These are the sinews of good sense.
Generally common sense is rare in that (higher) rank.
Between good sense and good taste there is the difference between cause and effect.
Sensible people find nothing useless.
Whate'er in her Horizon doth appear.
She is one Orb of Sense, all Eye, all aiery Ear.
Good sense which only is the gift of Heaven,
And though no science, fairly worth the seven.
'Tis use alone that sanctifies expense
And splendor borrows all her rays from sense.
Fool, 'tis in vain from wit to wit to roam:
Know, sense, like charity, begins at home.
Oft has good nature been the fool's defence,
And honest meaning gilded want of sense.
Common sense is not so common.
Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume;
The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves.
Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound;
When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam;
Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.
SENSIBILITY; SENTIMENT
(See also Influence)
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure
Thrill the deepest notes of wo.
Do not wish to touch me. Touch me not.
And the heart that is soonest awake to the
flowers
Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns.
It seem'd as if each thought and look
And motion were that minute chain 'd
Fast to the spot such root she took,
And—like a sunflower by a brook,
With face upturn'd—so still remain'd!
Too quick a sense of constant infelicity.
I sit with my toes in a brook.
And if any one axes forwhy?
I hits them a rap with my crook,
For 'tis sentiment does it, says I.
SENSITIVE PLANT
Mimosa Pudica
A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew.
And the young winds fed it with silver dew,
And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light,
And clothed them beneath the kisses of night.
For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower;
Radiance and odour are not its dower;
It loves, even like Love, its deep heart is full,
It desires what it has not, the beautiful.
SEPTEMBER
O sweet September, thy first breezes bring
The dry leaf's rustle and the squirrel's laughter,
The cool fresh air whence health and vigor spring
And promise of exceeding joy hereafter.
Come out 'tis now September,
The hunter's moon's begun.
And through the wheaten stubble
Is heard the frequent gun.
