I`ve been reading a book of short stories by Oscar Wilde and these are some of my favourite majic word pots:

for while they were swarthy and black haired,he was white and delicate as sawn ivory and his curls were like the rings of the daffodil.

Tread lightly,she is near
Under the snow
Speak gently,she can hear
The daisies grow.

The moon peered through a mane of tawny clouds,as if it were a lions eye.

The lad lying there wild eyed and open-mouthed like a young animal of the forest newly snared by the hunters.

Why,even the nightingale herself,who sang so sweetly in the orange groves at night that sometimes the Moon leaned down to listen.

In the forest the wind blew free and the sunlight with wondering hands of gold moved the tremulous leaves aside.

He would bring her acorn-cups and dew drenched anemones,and tiny glow-worms to be stars in the pale gold of her hair.

Till the sea-mists crept round him,and the wandering moon stained his brown limbs with silver.

and he thought of all the days that break in beauty but set in storm

That the secrets of art are best learned in secret,and that beauty like wisdom,loves the lonely worshiper.

and the pomegranates split and cracked with the heat,and showed their bleeding hearts.