In heaven it is always autumn.

Poor heretics there be,Which think to establish dangerous constancy,But I have told them, ‘Since you will be true,You shall be true to them, who are false to you.

That soul that can reflect upon itself, consider itself, is more than so.

I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I Did, till we loved? were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? Or snorted we in the seven sleepers' den?

Doubt wisely; in strange way To stand inquiring right, is not to stray; To sleep, or run wrong, is.

So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame, Angels affect us often.

There is in every miracle a silent chiding of the world, and a tacit reprehension of them who require, or who need miracles.