Sentimentality is a failure of feeling. p.903 - Wallace Stevens

On a blue island in a sky-wide water The wild orange trees continued to bloom and to bear, Long after the planter’s death.

Perhaps The truth depends on a walk around a lake, A composing as the body tires, a stop To see hepatica, a stop to watch A definition growing certain and A wait within that certainty, a rest In the swags of pine-trees bordering the lake. Perhaps there are times of inherent excellence

It can never be satisfied, the mind, never.