O Nightingale that on yon bloomy Spray
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#40 O Nightingale that on yon bloomy Spray
O Nightingale that on yon bloomy Spray,
Warbl'st at eve, when all the Woods are still
Thou with fresh hope the Lover's heart dost fill,
While the jolly hours lead on propitious May,
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day,
First heard before the shallow Cuckoo's bill
Portend success in love; O if Jove's will
Have linkt that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude Bird of Hate
Foretell my hopeless doom in some Grove nigh:
As thou from year to year hath sung too late
For my relief; yet hadst no reason why,
Whether the Muse, or Love call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
O Nightingale that on yon bloomy Spray
by John Milton
Now nature is not at variance with art, nor art with nature; they being
both the servants of his providence. Art is the perfection of nature. Were
the world now as it was the sixth day, there were yet a chaos. Nature hath
made one world, and art another. In brief, all things are artificial; for
nature is the art of God.
The human mind is not capable of grasping the Universe. We are like a
little child entereing a huge library. The walls are covered to the ceilings
with books in many different tongues. The child knows that someone must have
written these books. It does not know who or how. It does not understand the
languages in which they are written. But the child notes a definite plan in
the arrangement of books--a mysterious order which it does not comprehend,
but only dimly suspects. Albert Einstein
I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only
the essentail facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to
teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. Henry
David Thoreau
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This grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere; the dew is
never all dried at once; a shower is forever falling; vapor ever rising.
Eternal sunrise, eternal sunset, eternal dawn and gloaming, on seas and
continents and islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls.
John Muir
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