Nature Paints Not; In Oils, But Frescoes

That Which The Fountain Sends Forth Returns Again To The Fountain.

I Saw The Long Line Of The Vacant Shore, The Sea-weed And The Shells Upon The Sand, And The Brown Rocks Left Bare On Every Hand, As If The Ebbing Tide Would Flow No More.

For Next To Being A Great Poet Is The Power Of Understanding One.

In Old Age Our Bodies Are Worn-out Instruments, On Which The Soul Tries In Vain To Play The Melodies Of Youth. But Because The Instrument Has Lost Its Strings, Or Is Out Of Tune, It Does Not Follow That The Musician Has Lost His Skill.

Only A Look And A Voice; Then Darkness Again And Silence.