This horror will grow mild, this darkness light.
Beyond is all abyss, eternity, whose end no eye can reach.
Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.
Now morn, her rosy steps in th' eastern clime Advancing, sow'd the earth with orient pearl, When Adam wak'd, so custom'd; for his sleep Was aery light, from pure digestion bred.
Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.
Books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them....I know they are as lively and as vigorously productive as those fabulous dragon's teeth and being sown up and down, may chance to spring up armed men.