It flows through old hushed Egypt and its sands, Like some grave mighty thought threading a dream, And times and things, as in that vision, seem Keeping along it their eternal stands.

Oh for a seat in some poetic nook, Just hid with trees and sparkling with a brook!

The more sensible a woman is, supposing her not to be masculine, the more attractive she is in her proportionate power to entertain.

Music is the medicine of the breaking heart.

Happy opinions are the wine of the heart.

The last excessive feelings of delight are always grave.

This garden has a soul, I know its moods.