There’s a certain slant of light,

On winter afternoons,

That oppresses, like the weight

Of cathedral tunes.

[…]

When it comes, the landscape listens,

Shadows hold their breath;

When it goes, ‘tis like the distance

On the look of death.

~Emily Dickinson

Not in Utopia, — subterranean fields, —

Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where!

But in the very world, which is the world

Of all of us, — the place where in the end

We find our happiness, or not at all!

~ William Wordsworth, The Prelude (1805 edition)