He only is rich who owns the day.

There the great Planter plants Of fruitful worlds the grain, And with a million spells enchants The souls that walk in pain.

He then learns that in going down into the secrets of his own mind, he has descended into the secrets of all minds.

When we see a special reformer we feel like asking him, What right have you, sir, to your own virtue? Is virtue piecemeal?

Society is frivolous, and shreds its day into scraps, its conversation into ceremonies and escapes.

You must treat the days respectfully, you must be a day yourself, and not interrogate it like a college professor.

For what are they all in their high conceit, When man in the bush with God may meet?