“Written in Early Spring” by William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

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  I HEARD a thousand blended notes   While in a grove I sate reclined,  In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts  Bring sad thoughts to the mind.  To her fair works did Nature link  The human soul that through me ran;  And much it grieved my heart to think  What Man has made of Man.  Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,  The periwinkle trail’d its wreaths;  And ’tis my faith that every flower  Enjoys the air it breathes.  The birds around me hopp’d and play’d,  Their thoughts I cannot measure,—  But the least motion which they made  It seem’d a thrill of pleasure.  The budding twigs spread out their fan  To catch the breezy air;  And I must think, do all I can,  That there was pleasure there.  If this belief from heaven be sent,  If such be Nature’s holy plan,  Have I not reason to lament  What Man has made of Man?

Art and Science, A Perspective

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"‘Tis the very difference between the artistic mind and the mathematical, that the former sees things as they are in a picture, some nearer and larger some smaller and farther away while to the mathematical mind everything, every inch in a million, every fact in a cosmos, must be of equal value. That is why mathematicians go mad, and poets scarcely ever do. A man may have as wide a view of life as he likes, the wider the better: a distant view, a birds-eye view, but still a view and not a map. The one thing he cannot attempt in his version of the universe is to draw things to scale." (G.K. Chesterton, 1874-1936)

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