Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own webs from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch

Lord of oneself, uncumbered with a name.

A fiery soul, which, working out its way, Fretted the pygmy-body to decay, And o'er-informed the tenement of clay.

And looks commercing with the skies, / Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.

He [Shakespeare] was the man who of all modern, and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul . . . He was naturally learned; he needed not the spectacles of books to read nature; he looked inwards, and found her there.

Your eyes show the strength of your soul.