Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.
What am I pondering, you ask? So help me God, immortality.
Abash'd the Devil stood, And felt how awful goodness is.
Wisdom's self oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, where with her best nurse Contemplation, she plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings that in the various bustle of resort were all to-ruffled, and sometimes impaired.
Just deeds are the best answer to injurious words.
Fairy elves, Whose midnight revels by a forest side Or fountain some belated peasant sees, Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon Sits arbitress.