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

Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake beneath the trees Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Earth helped him with the cry of blood.

Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.

Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.