Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.

Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.

The poetry of the earth is never dead.

The excellency of every art is its intensity, capable of making all disagreeable evaporate.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.

And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.

The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness.