Life's bare as a bone.

I am rooted, but I flow.

He began to search among the infinite series of impressions which time had laid down, leaf upon leaf, fold upon fold softly, incessantly upon his brain; among scents, sounds; voices, harsh, hollow, sweet; and lights passing, and brooms tapping; and the wash and hush of the sea.

That complete statement which is literature.

She felt drawing further from her and further from her an Archduke, (she did not mind that) a fortune, (she did not mind that) the safety and circumstance of married life, (she did not mind that) but life she heard going from her, and a lover.

The poet gives us his essence, but prose takes the mould of the body and mind entire.

Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.