Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns.
Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.
Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.
A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.