The fish is swift, small-needing, vague yet clear, A cold, sweet, silver life, wrapped in round waves.

A pleasure so exquisite as almost to amount to pain.

The golden line is drawn between winter and summer. Behind all is blackness and darkness and dissolution. Before is hope, and soft airs, and the flowers, and the sweet season of hay; and people will cross the fields, reading or walking with one another; and instead of the rain that soaks death into the heart of green things, will be the rain which they drink with delight; and there will be sleep on the grass at midday, and early rising in the morning, and long moonlight evenings.

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.

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

There seems a life in hair, though it be dead.

Where the mouth is sweet and the eyes intelligent, there is always the look of beauty, with a right heart.