No mirror keeps its glances.
The traveling heart went free / With endless streams; that strife was stopped; / And down a thousand vales I dropped, / I flowed to Italy.
I come from nothing: but from where come the undying thoughts I bear?
Rome in the ages, dimmed with all her towers, / Floats in the mist, a little cloud at tether.
... I am dark but fair, / Black but fair.
Tender, too, is the silence of human feet. You have but to pass a season amongst the barefooted to find that man, who, shod, makes so much ado, is naturally as silent as snow.