And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.

Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all

The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.

Dreams, books, are each a world.

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky - I've thought of all by turns, and still I lie Sleepless.

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.

Strongest minds are often those whom the noisy world hears least.