And we who write--our loins are accinct, our lights burning, as men waiting for the revelation of the Bridegroom.

Wordsworth brought back the soul to Poetry.

She made her failures, but she was alive.

Spring was blossoming around her with dews and living airs, and the infinite opened before her.
So, too, it was when Turner recreated landscape art.

There was the perfect Claudesque landscape, with all its parts arranged, its colours chosen, the composition balanced, the tree here, the river there, the figures in the foreground, the accurate distribution and gradation of the masses of light and shade.