Innumerable as the stars of night, Or stars of morning, dewdrops which the sun Impearls on every leaf and every flower.

But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began.

His words, like so many nimble and airy servitors, trip about him at command. Ibid.

Her silent course advance With inoffensive pace, that spinning sleeps On her soft axle.

Demoniac frenzy, moping melancholy.

Aristotle ... imputed this symphony of the heavens ... this music of the spheres to Pythagorus. ... But Pythagoras alone of mortals is said to have heard this harmony ... If our hearts were as pure, as chaste, as snowy as Pythagoras' was, our ears would resound and be filled with that supremely lovely music of the wheeling stars.

Where no hope is left, is left no fear.