Are not the mountains, waves, and skies as much a part of me, as I of them?

Truth is a gem that is found at a great depth; whilst on the surface of the world all things are weighed by the false scale of custom.

In solitude, where we are least alone.

Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.

I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture.

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

My altars are the mountains and the ocean.