Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.

My slumbers--if I slumber--are not sleep, But a continuance of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not: in my heart There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within; and yet I live, and bear The aspect and the form of breathing men.

A feast not profuse but elegant; more of salt [refinement] than of expense.

And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, In small fine china cups, came in at last. Gold cups of filigree, made to secure the hand from burning, underneath them place. Cloves, cinnamon and saffron, too, were boiled Up with the coffee, which, I think, they spoiled.

I am never long, even in the society of her I love, without yearning for the company of my lamp and my library.

Letter writing is the only device combining solitude with good company.

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.