Bring me my bow of burning gold: Bring me my arrows of desire: Bring me my spear: O clouds, unfold! Bring me my chariot of fire.

To cast aside from Poetry, all that is not Inspiration

Celebrate your existence!

Reason, or the ratio of all we have already known, is not the same that it shall be when we know more.

But to go to school in a summer morn, O! It drives all joy away; Under a cruel eye outworn, The little ones spend the day In sighing and dismay.

Sweet babe, in thy face Soft desires I can trace, Secret joys and secret smiles, Little pretty infant wiles.

Sooner strangle an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.