Presumptuous man! The reason wouldst thou find,why form'd so weak, so little, and so blind?First, if thou canst, the harder reason guess,why form'd no weaker, blinder, and no less!Ask of thy mother earth, why oaks are madetaller or stronger than the weeds they shade?Or ask of yonder argent fields above,why jove's satellites are less than jove?
If you had your way you’d pass a law to abolish all the little jobs, the little things. but then you’d leave yourselves nothing to do between the big jobs and you’d have a devil of a time thinking up things to do so you wouldn’t go crazy. instead of that, why not let nature show you a few things? cutting grass and pulling weeds can be a way of life, son.
I sometimes hold it half a sin to put in words the grief i feel for words, like nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within. But, for the unquiet heart and brain a use measured language lie's the sad mechanic exercise like dull narcotic's, numbing pain in words, like weeds, i'll wrap me o'er like coarsest clothes against the cold but large grief which these enfold is given in outline and no more.
Huge knots of sea-weed hung upon the jagged and pointed stones, trembling in every breath of wind; and the green ivy clung mournfully round the dark and ruined battlements. behind it rose the ancient castle, its towers roofless, and its massive walls crumbling away, but telling us proudly of its own might and strength, as when, seven hundred years ago, it rang with the clash of arms, or resounded with the noise of feasting and revelry.
They trekked out along the crescent sweep of beach, keeping to the firmer sand below the tidewrack. They stood, their clothes flapping softly. Glass floats covered with a gray crust. The bones of seabirds. At the tideline a woven mat of weeds and the ribs of fishes in their millions stretching along the shore as far as the eye could see like an isocline of death. One vast salt sepulchre. Senseless. Senseless.