I hate all pain, Given or received; we have enough within us The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, Not to add to each other's natural burden Of mortal misery.
Hatred is the madness of the heart.
What want these outlaws conquerors should have but history's purchased page to call them great?
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August
From the mingled strength of shade and light A new creation rises to my sight, Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow, So warm with light his blended colors glow. . . . . The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring.