There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet cannot all conceal.
from Childe Harold, Canto iv, Verse 178
I love not man the less, but Nature more.
If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad.
Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life.
Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.
Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.
But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.
Those who will not reason, are bigots, those who cannot, are fools, and those who dare not, are slaves.
For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.
All who would win joy, must share it; happiness was born a twin.
Smiles form the channels of a future tear.