A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company.

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tosing their heads in sprightly dance.

That inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way.

He is the happy wanderer, who goes, Singing upon the way, with eyes awake To every scene, with ears alert to take The sweetness of all sounds; who loves and kn…

The fact is always obvious much too late, but the most singular difference between happiness and joy is that happiness is a solid and joy a liquid.

In this painting, I was in fact in quest for a certain hour, which was and which remains always the most beautiful hour of the day in Moscow. The sun is alread…