It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.
Music is the language spoken by angels.
No literature is complete until the language it was written in is dead.
All was silent as before - All silent save the dripping rain.
Noble souls, through dust and heat, rise from disaster and defeat the stronger.
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.