Egeria! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast.

Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen.

Good work and joyous play go hand in hand. When play stops, old age begins. Play keeps you from taking life too seriously.

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.

Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?

Let joy be unconfined.

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave, Then some leap'd overboard with fearful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave.