There is nothing the body suffers which the soul may not profit by.
I know him, February's thrush, And loud at eve he valentines On sprays that paw the naked bush Where soon will sprout the thorns and bines.
We are betrayed by what is false within
The man or country that fights priestcraft and priests is to my mind striking deeper for freedom than can be struck anywhere.
Perfect simplicity is unconsciously audacious.
Not till the fire is dying in the grate, Look we for any kinship with the stars.