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

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

Neither evil tongues, rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all the dreary intercourse of daily life, shall ever prevail against us.

A deep distress has humanised my soul.

Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away; less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.

The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion; the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, An appetite; a feeling and a love that had no need of a remoter charm by thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye.

In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .