The man of science is nothing if not a poet gone wrong.
Earth knows no desolation. She smells regeneration in the moist breath of decay.
There is nothing the body suffers which the soul may not profit by.
But O the truth, the truth. The many eyes That look on it The diverse things they see.
A house with a great wine stored below lives in our imagination as a joyful house, fast and splendidly rooted in the soil.
Chance works for us when we are good captains.