Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.
Men are but men; we did not make ourselves.
Prayer ardent opens heaven.
What is a miracle?--'Tis a reproach, 'Tis an implicit satire on mankind; And while it satisfies, it censures too.
Pity swells the tide of love.
This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule; Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove, And make us embryos of existence free.