A Man's Vanity Tells Him What Is

But I Have Sinuous Shells Of Pearly Hue Within, And They That Lustre Have Imbibed In The Sun's Palace-porch, Where When Unyoked Chariot-wheel Stands Midway In The Wave: Shake One, And It Awakens; Then Apply Its Polisht Lips To Your Attentive Ear, And It Remembers Its August Abodes, And Murmurs As The Ocean Murmurs There.

Fancy Is Imagination In Her Youth And Adolescence. Fancy Is Always Excursive; Imagination, Not Seldom, Is Sedate.

God Made The Rose Out Of What Was Left Of Woman At The Creation. The Great Difference Is, We Feel The Rose's Thorns When We Gather It; And The Other's When We Have Had It For Some Time.

Why Cannot We Be Delighted With An Author, And Even Feel A Predilection For Him, Without A Dislike Of Others? An Admiration Of Catullus Or Virgil, Of Tibullus Or Ovid, Is Never To Be Heightened By A Discharge Of Bile On Horace.

Solitude Is The Audience-chamber Of God.