There is no divining-rod whose dip shall tell us at twenty what we shall most relish at thirty.
We may believe that we shall know each other's forms hereafter; and in the bright fields of the better land call the lost dead to us.
Pitch a lucky man into the Nile, says the Arabian proverb, and he will come up with a fish in his mouth!
The dust is old upon my "sandal-shoon," And still I am a pilgrim; I have roved From wild America to Bosphor's waters, And worshipp'd at innumerable shrines Of beauty; and the painter's art, to me, And sculpture, speak as with a living tongue, And of dead kingdoms, I recall the soul, Sitting amid their ruins.
Your love in a cottage is hungry, Your vine is a nest for flies- Your milkmaid shocks the Graces, And simplicity talks of pies! You lie down to your shady slumber And wake with a bug in your ear, And your damsel that walks in the morning Is shod like a mountaineer.
How like a mounting devil in the heart rules the unreined ambition.
Fine taste is an aspect of genius itself, and is the faculty of delicate appreciation, which makes the best effects of art our own.
The Spring is here--the delicate footed May, With its slight fingers full of leaves and flowers, And with it comes a thirst to be away. In lovelier scenes to pass these sweeter hours.
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 Italians say that a beautiful woman by her smiles draws tears from our purse.
Blessed are the joymakers.
Temptation hath a music for all ears.
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