The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.1
“Under the shadow of a stately Pile,
The dome of Florence, pensive and alone,
Nor giving heed to aught that passed the while,
I stood, and gazed upon a marble stone,
The laurelled Dante's favourite seat. A throne,
To begin, begin!
Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher.
Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.
With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.
