'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's.

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

To know and feel all this and not have the words to express it makes a human a grave of his own thoughts.

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

Our two souls therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to airy thinness beat. If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compasses are two; Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show To move, but doth if th' other do. And though it in the center sit, Yet when the other far doth roam, It leans and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home. Suth wilt thou be to me, who must Like th' other foot, obliquely run; Thy firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end where I began.

Other men's crosses are not my crosses.

I throw myself down in my chamber, and I call and invite God and his angels thither.