It is the unknown that excites the ardor of scholars, who, in the known alone, would shrivel up with boredom.
Anything is beautiful if you say it is.
It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.
The exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.
God and the imagination are one.
Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams?