Mornings, the flower-women hawk their wares— Bronze caryatids of a…

Christ Jesus, when I come to die Grant me a clean, sweet, summer sky, Without the mad wind's panther cry. Send me a little garden breeze To gossip in magnolia trees; For I have heard, these fifty years, Confessions muttered at my ears, …

Local color has a fatal tendency to remain local; but it is also true that the universal often borders on the void.

Legends are material to be moulded, and not facts to be recorded.

Here the Frenchman, Spaniard, and Englishman all passed, leaving each his legend; and a brilliant and more or less feudal civilization with its aristocracy and slaves has departed with the economic system upon which it rested.

The sunn must lend his goulden beames, Soft windes their breath, green trees their shade, Sweete fields their flowers, cleare springs their streams, Ere such another smyle bee made.

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice, And with that boding cry Why o'er the waves dost fly? O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice!