Much Madness is divinest Sense -- To a discerning Eye -- Much Sense -- the starkest Madness -- 'Tis the Majority In this, as All, prevail -- Assent -- and you are sane -- Demur -- you're straightway dangerous -- And handled with a Chain --

Till it has loved, no man or woman can become itself.

God's little Blond Blessing we have long deemed you, and hope his so-called Will will not compel him to revoke you.

Here is a little forest Whose leaf is ever green; Here is a brighter garden, Where not a frost has been; In its unfading flowers I hear the bright bee hum; Prithee, my brother, Into my garden come!

The Spirit lurks within the Flesh Like Tides within the Sea That make the Water live, estranged What would the Either be?

We both believe, and disbelieve a hundred times an hour, which keeps believing nimble.

Assent - and you are sane - Demur - and you're straightaway dangerous - and handled with a chain.