Spake full well, in language quaint and olden, One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine, When he called the flowers, so blue and golden, Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine.

The secret anniversaries of the heart.

There's nothing in this world so sweet as love. And next to love the sweetest thing is hate.

Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

White swan of cities slumbering in thy nest . . . White phantom city, whose untrodden streets Are rivers, and whose pavements are the shifting Shadows of the palaces and strips of sky.

The morning pouring everywhere, its golden glory on the air.

The history of the past is a mere puppet-show. A little man comes out and blows a little trumpet, and goes in again. You look for something new, and lo! another little man comes out, and blows another little trumpet, and goes in again. And it is all over.