Sweet the young muse with love intense,
	Which smiles o’er sleeping innocence.

Smart.    

	Not the poet in the moment
	Fancy lightens on his e’e,
	Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture,
	That thy presence gies to me.

Burns.    

	An infant when it gazes on the light,
	A child the moment when it drains the breast,
	A devotee when soars the Host in sight,
	An Arab with a stranger for a guest,
	A sailor when the prize has struck in fight,
	A miser filling his most hoarded chest,
	Feel rapture; but not such true joy are reaping
	As they who watch o’er what they love while sleeping.

Byron.