Doesn’t it make you melancholy—looking at the stars?

. . . distant views seemed to outlast by a million years (Lily thought) the gazer and to be communing already with a sky which beholds an earth entirely at rest.

Lazy and indifferent the heron returns; the sky veils her stars; then bares them

She stood there: she listened. She heard the names of the stars.

There was a star riding through clouds one night, & I said to the star, 'Consume me'.

Who shall blame him? Who will not secretly rejoice when the hero puts his armour off, and halts by the window and gazes at his wife and son, who, very distant at first, gradually come closer and closer, till lips and book and head are clearly before him, though still lovely and unfamiliar from the intensity of his isolation and the waste of ages and the perishing of the stars, and finally putting his pipe in his pocket and bending his magnificent head before her—who will blame him if he does homage to the beauty of the world?