How the old mountains drip with sunset, And the brake of dun! How the hemlocks are tipped in tinsel By the wizard sun! How the old steeples hand the scarlet, Till the ball is full, -- Have I the lip of the flamingo That I dare to tell? Then, how the fire ebbs like billows, Touching all the grass With a departing, sapphire feature, As if a duchess pass! How a small dusk crawls on the village Till the houses blot; And the odd flambeaux no men carry Glimmer on the spot! Now it is night in nest and kennel, And where was the wood, Just a dome of abyss is nodding Into solitude! -- These are the visions baffled Guido; Titian never told; Domenichino dropped the pencil, Powerless to unfold.
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Women hate everything which strips off the tinsel of sentiment, and they are right, or it would rob them of their weapons.
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Strip away the phony tinsel of Hollywood and you find the real tinsel underneath.
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Strip away the phony tinsel of Hollywood and you will find the real tinsel underneath.
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Behind the phony tinsel of Hollywood lies the real tinsel.
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