Nature paints not; In oils, but frescoes the great dome of heaven; With sunsets, and the lovely forms of clouds; And flying vapors.

The counterfeit and counterpart of Nature is reproduced in art.

We judge ourselves by what we feel capable of doing, while others judge us by what we have already done.

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.

Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.

All things are symbols.

And as she looked around, she saw how Death the consoler, Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it forever.