With mimicry, with praises, with echoes, or with answers, the poets have all but outsung the bell. The inarticulate bell has found too much interpretation, too many rhymes professing to close with her inaccessible utterance, and to agree with her remote tongue. The bell, like the bird, is a musician pestered with literature.

Rome in the ages, dimmed with all her towers, / Floats in the mist, a little cloud at tether.

In the case of women, it is of the living and unpublished blood that the violent world has professed to be delicate and ashamed. See the curious history of the political rights of woman under the Revolution. On the scaffold she enjoyed an ungrudged share in the fortunes of party. Political life might be denied her, but that seems a trifle when you consider how generously she was permitted political death.

A wall is the safeguard of simplicity.

Rich meanings of the prophet-Spring adorn, / Unseen, this colorless sky of folded showers, / And folded winds...

Spring and autumn are inconsiderable events in a landscape compared with the shadows of a cloud.

Assuredly it would be a pity if laughter should ever become, like rhetoric and the arts, a habit.