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.
Henry Wadsworth LongfellowLove makes its record in deeper colors as we grow out of childhood into manhood; as the Emperors signed their names in green ink when under age, but when of age, in purple.
Henry Wadsworth LongfellowWe waste our best years in distilling the sweetest flowers of life into potions which, after all, do not immortalize, but only intoxicate.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow