Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul – and sings the tunes without the words – and never stops at all.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul – and sings the tunes without the words – and never stops at all.
Our soul is cast into a body, where it finds number, time, dimension. Thereupon it reasons, and calls this nature necessity, and can believe nothing else.
Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.
This soul, or life within us, by no means agrees with the life outside us. If one has the courage to ask her what she thinks, she is always saying the very opposite to what other people say.
It is clear to everyone that astronomy at all events compels the soul to look upwards, and draws it from the things of this world to the other.
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