I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetched my sea-born treasures home; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore, With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar

Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us, or we find it not.

Many eyes go through the meadow, but few see the flowers in it

We are immensed in beauty, but our eyes have no clear vision.

Traveling is a fool's paradise... I pack my trunk, embrace my friends, embark on the sea and at last wake up in Naples, and there besides me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from.

How cunningly nature hides every wrinkle of her inconceivable antiquity under roses and violets and morning dew!