I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.

The Cardinal is at his wit's end - it is true that he had not far to go.

Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand; I saw from out the wave of her structure's rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble pines, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles.

The heart will break, but broken live on.

When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter." And proved it--'t was no matter what he said.

A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusty, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a fools-cap crown On a fool's head - and there is London Town.