Beauty vanishes like a vapor

A place of dream, the Holy Land Hangs midway between earth and heaven.

He is one of those people to whom you must allow moods,—when their sun shines, dance,—and when their vapors rise, sit in the shadow.

Ah, happy world, where all things live Creatures of one great law, indeed; Bound by strong roots, the splendid flower,— Swept by great seas, the drifting seed!

The awful phantom of the hungry poor.

Her neck is bared—the blow is struck—the soul has pass'd away; The bright—the beautiful—is now a bleeding piece of clay!— A solemn text! Go, think of it, in silence and alone, Then weigh against a grain of sand the glories of a throne!

There is poetry and there is beauty in real sympathy; but there is more—there is action. […] The noblest and most powerful form of sympathy is not merely the responsive tear, the echoed sigh, the answering look—it is the embodiment of the …