Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.

They who go Feel not the pain of parting; it is they Who stay behind that suffer.

When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.

Ne speaketh not; and yet there lies a conversation in his eyes.

There's nothing fair nor beautiful, but takes Something from thee, that makes it beautiful.

The natural alone is permanent. Fantastic idols may be worshipped for a while; but at length they are overturned by the continual and silent progress of Truth, as the grim statues of Copan have been pushed from their pedestals by the growth of forest-trees, whose seeds were sown by the wind in the ruined walls.

Sail on, O Ship of State! Sail on, O Union, strong and great.