Some people always sigh in thanking God.

Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.

What is genius but the power of expressing a new individuality?

Yes, I answered you last night; No, this morning, sir, I say: Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day.

This race is never grateful: from the first, One fills their cup at supper with pure wine, Which back they give at cross-time on a sponge, In bitter vinegar.

Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive, half wishing they were dead to save the shame. The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow; They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats, and flare up bodily, wings and all. What then? Who's sorry for a gnat or girl?

The least flower, with brimming cup, may stand and share its dew drop with another near.