Here's a one of my favorite lines from a Shakespeare play. The imagery and solitude of it remind of an unknown, dusty sculpture you often find in an obscure corner of a museum that is so powerful in its lonliness that once it is really looked at time stops. It often reminds me of myself.

With green and yellow melancholy
she sat like patience on a monument,
smiling at grief.

Twelfth Night (2.4.112-114)