The rugged trees are mingling Their flowery sprays in love; The ivy climbs the laurel To clasp the boughs above.

As creeping ivy clings to wood or stone, And hides the ruin that it feeds upon.

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.