You can make hell out of heaven and heaven out of hell. It's all in the mind.
Smiles from reason flow, To brute deny'd, and are of love the food.
And fast by, hanging in a golden chain, This pendent world, in bigness as a star Of smallest magnitude, close by the moon.
A short retirement urges a sweet return.
Fairy elves, Whose midnight revels by a forest side Or fountain some belated peasant sees, Or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon Sits arbitress.
Ink is the blood of the printing-press.