By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world.

We can see well into the past; we can guess shrewdly into the future, but that which is rolled up and muffled in impenetrable folds is today.

Its the not the Destination, It's the journey.

Tis the good reader that makes the good book; a good head cannot read amiss: in every book he finds passages which seem confidences or asides hidden from all else and unmistakeably meant for his ear.

The world is emblematic. Parts of speech are metaphors, because the whole of nature is a metaphor of the human mind.

Perhaps love is only the highest symbol of friendship, as all other things seem symbols of love.

Heaven is large, and affords space for all modes of love and fortitude.