In the elder days of art Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part, For the Gods are everywhere

I have an affection for a great city. I feel safe in the neighborhood of man, and enjoy the sweet security of the streets.

If the mind, that rules the body, ever so far forgets itself as to trample on its slave, the slave is never generous enough to forgive the injury, but will rise and smite the oppressor.

Dead he is not, but departed, for the artist never dies.

And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives.

My soul is full of longing for the secret of the sea, and the heart of the great ocean sends a thrilling pulse through me.

Gone are the living, but the dead remain, And not neglected; for a hand unseen, Scattering its bounty like a summer rain, Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.