Some Sigh For This And

A Moment's Thinking Is An Hour In Words.

A Name, It Has More Than Nominal Worth, And Belongs To Good Or Bad Luck At Birth

With Fingers Weary And Worn, With Eyelids Heavy And Red, A Woman Sat In Unwomanly Rags, Plying Her Needle And Thread.

He Lies Like A Hedgehog Rolled Up The Wrong Way, Tormenting Himself With His Prickles.

Mother Of Light! How Fairly Dost Thou Go Over Those Hoary Crests, Divinely Led! Art Thou That Huntress Of The Silver Bow Fabled Of Old? Or Rather Dost Thou Tread Those Cloudy Summits Thence To Gaze Below, Like The Wild Chamois From Her Alpine Snow, Where Hunters Never Climbed--secure From Dread?