A Lady with a Lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A noble type of good, Heroic womanhood.

The moon is hidden behind a cloud... On the leaves is a sound of falling rain... No other sounds than these I hear; The hour of midnight must be near... So many ghosts, and forms of fright, Have started from their graves to-night, They have driven sleep from mine eyes away: I will go down to the chapel and pray.

Like a French poem is life; being only perfect in structure when with the masculine rhymes mingled the feminine are.

Love is a bodily shape; and Christian works are no more than animate faith and love, as flowers are the animate springtide.

There is no death! What seems so is transition; this life of mortal breath is but a suburb of the life elysian, whose portal we call Death.

Look upon the errors of others in sorrow, not in anger.

And when she was good she was very very good. But when she was bad she was horrid.