What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel visits, few and far between.

Where the Scriptures speak, we speak; where the Scriptures are silent, we are silent.

To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.

Never wedding, ever wooing, Still a lovelorn heart pursuing, Read you not the wrong you're doing In my cheek's pale hue? All my life with sorrow strewing; Wed or cease to woo.

Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I, No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

It's not about the body; you are consciousness. That's what you are. Your consciousness is already out of your body. You don't need to get out of your body, you just need to get into your consciousness.