Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm. – William Wordsworth
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To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. – William Wordsworth
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When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude. – William Wordsworth
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