And you and your heart are housed together,
If memories come to you all unbid,
And something suddenly wets your lid,
Like a gust of the out-door weather,
Why, who is in fault but the dim old day,
Too dark for labour, too dull for play?
Author not traced.
A man can never do anything at variance with his own nature. He carries with him the germ of his most exceptional actions; and, if we wise people make fools of ourselves on any particular occasion, we must endure the legitimate conclusion that we carry a few grains of folly to our ounce of wisdom.
George Eliot.