Oh! that the memories which survive us here

The little bee returns with evening's gloom, To join her comrades in the braided hive, Where, housed beside their mighty honey-comb, They dream their polity shall long survive.

How like the leper, with his own sad cry Enforcing his own solitude, it tolls! That lonely bell set in the rushing shoals, To warn us from the place of jeopardy!

Hung on the shower that fronts the golden West, The rainbow bursts like magic on mine eyes! In hues of ancient promise there imprest; Frail in its date, eternal in its guise.

Tea is a work of art and needs a master hand to bring out its noblest qualities.

True Genius, like Armida’s wand, Can raise the spring from barren land. While all the art of Imitation, Is pilf’ring from the first creation.

In literature, in art, in life, I think that the only conclusions worth coming to are one's own conclusions . If they march with the verdict of the connoisseurs , so much the better for the connoisseurs ; if they do not so march , so much …