The most restless souls I’ve known, belong to those who deny them.
Not all storms restore thence, but further by thoughts bad and ill deeds fed, stay the bringer, quarrelsome under his own blizzard abiding and spares every mans cottage under a bliss but his own. Stall the outrage gentle heart, or break; into a thousand tiny pieces flung by perspectives chilly after gale, and lost. Do not swell to custom but become. Retire to quietude once in a splendid while, adopt an equable climate. Read a quiet book; how they grand tales contain. Hang the senses upon a soothing ballad and by a candle lit, burrow down, deep into yourself, through the furthermost caverns of you. Find that trembling being, huddled in the dark.
I wish would you know the much you miss, and recall those curiously lavish ideas your childhood forgot, when wide with bewilderment fresh eyes would drink and drink, and no part of defeat would taint the nourishment. Estimate where now underfed you stand; how age has so dried the blood and plundered ambition from it, frighted most by the dream that most is needed. All the world for living is exhausted, and sighs a wilder yearning hurrying by an abundant week in baser duties to enjoy a restless Sunday, thus an exhale of precious life makes. I wish would you know the much you miss.