Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
Four seasons fill the measure of the year; there are four seasons in the minds of men.
--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
I always made an awkward bow.
It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.
I equally dislike the favor of the public with the love of a woman - they are both a cloying treacle to the wings of independence.