Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.

Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains; and of all that we behold from this green earth.

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!

Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.

But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.

And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.