Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
From William Wordsworth
Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.
For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.
How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.
Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.
With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.
The world is too much with us; late and soon, getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours.
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
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