How many minds--almost all the great ones--were formed in secrecy and solitude!

Six years-six little years-six drops of time.

Now the great winds shoreward blow Now the salt tides seaward flow Now the wild white horses play Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.

Art still has truth. Take refuge there.

The interpretations of science do not give us this intimate sense of objects as the interpretations of poetry give it; they appeal to a limited faculty, and not to the whole man. It is not Linnaeus or Cavendish or Cuvier who gives us the true sense of animals, or water, or plants, who seizes their secret for us, who makes us participate in their life; it is Shakspeare [sic] … Wordsworth … Keats … Chateaubriand … Senancour.

How many minds--almost all the great ones--were formed in secrecy and solitude!

And we forget because we must and not because we will.