There is creation in the eye.

But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.

The gods approve The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul.

This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

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.

It is the 1st mild day of March. Each minute sweeter than before... there is a blessing in the air.

The memory of the just survives in Heaven.