My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea.
Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty.
The devil was the first democrat
Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ!
Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.
I have seen a thousand graves opened, and always perceived that whatever was gone, the teeth and hair remained of those who had died with them. Is not this odd? They go the very first things in youth and yet last the longest in the dust.