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

Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!

The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole — And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!

So do the dark in soul expire, Or live like scorpion girt by fire; So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, Darkness above, despair beneath, Around it flame, within it death.

'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print. A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.

Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.

I die but first I have possessed, And come what may, I have been blessed.