Far from the world I walk, and from all care.

Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.

For nature then to me was all in all.

The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.

My apprehension comes in crowds, I dread the rustling of the grass, The very shadows of the clouds, Have power to shake me as they pass, I question things and do not find, one that will answer to my mind, And all the world appears unkind.

The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

By all means sometimes be alone; salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; dare to look in thy chest; and tumble up and down what thou findest there.