She never wearies of saying over her floral pater-noster.

In the crevices of Cyclopean walls, -- in the dust where men lie, dust also,--on the mounds that bury huge cities, the wreck of Nineveh and the Babel-heap,--still that same sweet prayer and benediction.

The Amen! of Nature is always a flower.
Are you tired of my trivial personalities,--those splashes and streaks of sentiment, sometimes perhaps of sentimentality, which you may see when I show you my heart's corolla as if it were a tulip?
Pray, do not give yourself the trouble to fancy me an idiot whose conceit it is to treat himself as an exceptional being.

It is because you are just like me that I talk and know that you will listen.

We are all splashed and streaked with sentiments,--not with precisely the same tints, or in exactly the same patterns, but by the same hand and from the same palette.
I don't believe any of you happen to have just the same passion for the blue hyacinth which I have,--very certainly not for the crushed lilac-leaf-buds; many of you do not know how sweet they are.