His religion at best is an anxious wish,-like that of Rabelais, a great Perhaps.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.

... the open sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire crown - the Air is our robe of state - the Earth is our throne, and the Sea a mighty minstrel playing before it.

On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence.

How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.

I love you the more in that I believe you had liked me for my own sake and for nothing else.

Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu