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.

This sort of adoration of the real is but a heightening of the beau ideal.

Critics are already made.

I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one's partners in the waltz of this world -not much remembered when the ball is over.

Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.

Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies for those who know thee not.

Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.