An environment,
Where text pages are heavy from analysis, Time, and immortal words.
Where we observe the pace of Nature at our own.
Where we saunter, making full our baskets of Knowledge with blooms unique to the Path we wander.
Where we feel first, feel second, and finally Act but not before feeling a little bit more.
We do as the Romantics did.
We read what they said, bleed as they bled.
I like what you wrote here, its beautiful, but I always wonder if these romantics felt a little too much,and did a little too little. Am I too critical when I think of them as men (and women) who took a voluntary vow of poverty then wrote of the woes of said chosen life, as if their experiences were new undiscovered terrain? Then like their American contemporary Thoreau, could return to a comfortable, less thoughtful life after it no longer suited them? Well we know Coleridge didn't, he died. Perhaps I am not sold on the Romantics, despite their pretty words and whimsical thoughts. What is their end? What did they accomplish? What were they really up against except for self abasing insecurities? This will be my quest in learning this semester. I will keep my mind open to what they have to teach me, but I am not completely impressed yet. Are they merely art for arts sake? And where does that fit into our schema of experience, and is it merely a luxury of the privileged?
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