There stand in vermilion all the poets from Homer to Tennyson.

Here and there are chamois heads and pressed seaweed.

He writes on gilt-edged paper with a gold pen and handle twisted with a serpent.

His inkstand is a mystery of beauty which unskilled hands dare not touch, lest the ink spring at him from some of the open mouths, or sprinkle on him from the bronze wings, or with some unexpected squirt dash into his eyes the blackness of darkness.
We have a very precise friend.

Everything is in severe order.