Reason respects the differences, and imagination the similitudes of things.

We live and move and think; but we are not the creators of our own origin and existence. We are not the arbiters of every motion of our own complicated nature; we are not the masters of our own imaginations and moods of mental being.

Nothing in the world is single, All things by a law divine, In one spirit meet and mingle-Why not I with thine?

The cloud of mind is discharging its collected lightning.

That sweet sleep which medicines all pain.

Lie bills and calculations much perplexed, With steam-boats, frigates, and machinery quaint Traced over them in blue and yellow paint.

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the Year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. . . .