Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.

Italy, my Italy! Queen Mary's saying serves for me (When fortune's malice Lost her Calais): "Open my heart, and you will see Graved inside of it 'Italy.'"

Silence 'tis awe decrees.

It is the glory and good of Art, That Art remains the one way possible Of speaking truth, to mouths like mine at least.

In the morning of the world, When earth was nigher heaven than now.

Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven.

God's justice, tardy though it prove perchance, Rests never on the track until it reach Delinquency.