Just a tender sense of my own process, that holds something of my connection with the divine.

The everlasting universe of things Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves, Now dark--now glittering--now reflecting gloom-- Now lending splendour, where from secret springs The source of human thought its tribute brings.

When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead - When the cloud is scattered The rainbow's glory is shed.

Near that a dusty paint-box, some odd hooks, A half-burnt match, an ivory block, three books, Where conic sections, spherics, logarithms, To great Laplace, from Saunderson and Sims, Lie heaped in their harmonious disarray Of figures,-disentangle them who may.

To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light,The night is good; because, my love,They never say good-night.

The nature of a narrow and malevolent spirit is so essentially incompatible with happiness as to render it inaccessible to the influences of the benignant God.

Oh that simplicity and innocence its own unvalued work so seldom knows!