Every age, Through being beheld too close, is ill-discerned By those who have not lived past it.
A grave, on which to rest from singing?
What we call Life is a condition of the soul. And the soul must improve in happiness and wisdom, except by its own fault. These tears in our eyes, these faintings of the flesh, will not hinder such improvement.
Two human loves make one divine.
Large, musing eyes, neither joyous nor sorry.
Books are men of higher stature.