Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.

The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.

The eye— it cannot choose but see; we cannot bid the ear be still; our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.

poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge

In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.

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.

The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.