“And this is why I sojourn here
Alone, and idly loitering,
Tho’ all the season’s through and tho’
No ‘stars’ now sing!”
The Figaro. September 15, 1875.
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep