A mighty flame followeth a tiny spark.

Thy soul is by vile fear assailed, which oft so overcasts a man, that he recoils from noblest resolution, like a beast at some false semblance in the twilight gloom.

And we came forth to contemplate the stars.

And as he, who with laboring breath has escaped from the deep to the shore, turns to the perilous waters and gazes.

From a small spark, Great flame has risen.

There is no greater pain than to remember, in our present grief, past happiness.

Perceive ye not that we are worms, designed To form the angelic butterfly, that goes To judgment, leaving all defence behind? Why doth your mind take such exalted pose, Since ye, disabled, are as insects, mean As worm which never transformation knows?