Ah, to build, to build! That is the noblest art of all the arts. Painting and sculpture are but images, Are merely shadows cast by outward things On stone or canvas, having in themselves No separate existence. Architecture, Existing in itself, and not in seeming A something it is not, surpasses them As substance shadow.

How like they are to human things!

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

The atmosphere breathes rest and comfort, and the many chambers seem full of welcomes.

Autumn arrives like a warrior with the stain of blood upon his brazen mail. His crimson scarf is rent. His scarlet banner drips with gore. His step is like a flail upon the threshing floor.

In the mouths of many men soft words are like roses that soldiers put into the muzzles of their muskets on holidays.

Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate, Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours Weeping upon his bed has sate, He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.