The future... seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done

Midway from Nothing to the Deity!

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man!... Midway from nothing to the Deity!

One eye on death, and one full fix'd on heaven.

To know the world, not love her, is thy point; She gives but little, nor that little, long.

Think naught a trifle, though it small appear; Small stands the mountain, moments make the year, and trifles life.

O! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul! Who think it solitude to be alone.