Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep From leaf to leaf.

That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech.

There is something pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything.

What want these outlaws conquerors should have but history's purchased page to call them great?

A material resurrection seems strange and even absurd except for purposes of punishment, and all punishment which is to revenge rather than correct must be morally wrong, and when the World is at an end, what moral or warning purpose can eternal tortures answer?

Happiness was born a twin.

Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.