Pleasantly, between the pelting showers, the sunshine gushes down.

The hills,Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun, -- the valesStretching in pensive quietness between;The venerable woods -- rivers that moveIn majesty, and the complaining brooksThat make the meadows green; and, poured round all,Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, --Are but the solemn decorations allOf the great tomb of man.

The birch-bark canoe of the savage seems to me one of the most beautiful and perfect things of the kind constructed by human art.

And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief;

Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.