I have a passion for the name of "Mary," For once it was a magic sound to me, And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, Where I beheld what never was to be.

I awoke one morning and found myself famous.

A drop of ink may make a million think.

Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul!

It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.

The dew of compassion is a tear.

Ancient of days! august Athena! where, Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were; First in the race that led to glory's goal, They won, and pass'd away--Is this the whole?