Poor little Foal of an oppressed race! I love the languid patience of thy face.

There are three classes into which all the women past seventy that ever I knew were to be divided: 1. That dear old soul; 2. That old woman; 3. That old witch.

The moving moon went up the sky, And nowhere did abide: Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside.

That only can with propriety be styled refinement which, by strengthening the intellect, purifies the manners.

That gracious thing, made up of tears and light.

So lonely 'twas that God himself Scarce seemed there to be.

So will I build my altar in the fields, And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be, And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yields Shall be the incense I will yield to thee.