what a joy- to look back at a path we've cilmbed

And so on to the end of the chapter.

It was marvellous, a feast for the eyes, this complication of coloured tints, a perfect kaleidoscope of green, yellow, orange, violet, indigo, and blue; in one word, the whole palette of an enthusiastic colourist!

The news was highly coloured, even if the print was black and white.

I like you and your book, ingenious Hone!
In whose capacious all-embracing leaves
The very marrow of tradition 's shown;
And all that history, much that fiction weaves.

One of the great things about books is sometimes there are some fantastic pictures.

Like the history of Black Americans, once we shine a light on the story, we see its great complexity, depth, detail, and beauty.

Pictures, bright pictures, oh ! they are to me
A world for thought to revel in. I love
To give a history to every face, to think —
As I thought with the painter — as I knew
What his high communing had been.

See the long pomp in gorgeous glare display'd, The tinsel'd guards, the squadron'd horse parade; See heralds gay, with emblems on their vest, In tissu'd robes, tall, beauteous pages drest; Amid superior ranks of splendid slaves, Lords, Dukes and Princes, titulary knaves, Confus'dly shine their crosses, gems and stars, Sceptres and globes and crowns and spoils of wars.

In warlike pomp, with banners flowing,
The regiments of autumn stood:
I saw their gold and scarlet glowing
From every hillside, every wood.

Ah! Madame, I reserve the explanations for the last chapter.

All our experiences are rich colors that make a full life.

A precious mouldering pleasure 't is
To meet an antique book,
In just the dress his century wore;
A privilege, I think,

His venerable hand to take,
And warming in our own,
A passage back, or two, to make
To times when he was young.

His quaint opinions to inspect,
His knowledge to unfold
On what concerns our mutual mind.
The literature of old;

What interested scholars most,
What competitions ran
When Plato was a certainty,
And Sophocles a man;

When Sappho was a living girl,
And Beatrice wore
The gown that Dante deified.
Facts, centuries before,

He traverses familiar,
As one should come to town
And tell you all your dreams were true:
He lived where dreams were born.

His presence is enchantment,
You beg him not to go;
Old volumes shake their vellum heads
And tantalize just so.

There's room for saying things in bright shiny colours.