Some noble spirits mistake despair for content.

The Italians say that a beautiful woman by her smiles draws tears from our purse.

Of dead kingdoms I recall the soul, sitting amid their ruins

The night is made for tenderness,--so still that the low whisper, scarcely audible, is heard like music,--and so deeply pure that the fond thought is chastened as it springs and on the lip made holy.

I knelt, and with the fervor of a lip unused to the cool breath of reason, told my love.

Spring is a beautiful piece of work; and not to be in the country to see it done is the not realizing what glorious masters we are, and how cheerfully, minutely, and unflaggingly the fair fingers of the season broider the world for us.

The smallest pebble in the well of truth has its peculiar meaning, and will stand when man's best monuments have passed away.