Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.

I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.

But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?

From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.

Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!

[Mathematics] is an independent world created out of pure intelligence.

poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge