It was a poet called William Henry Davies, perhaps best known for spending part of his life as a tramp, who wrote, What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare.
He went on to detail the sort of things which might be stared at, if time permitted. They were, in no particular order: squirrels hiding their nuts in grass, and streams, stars, skies and Beauty.
My mother quoted this often, mainly to annoy me. For many years I thought
