The crow wished everything was black, the Owl, that everything was white.

Then the Parson might preach, & drink, & sing, And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring; And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church, Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.

I see through my eyes, not with them.

For everything exists and not one sigh nor smile nor tear, one hair nor particle of dust, not one can pass away.

Naught can deform the human race Like to the armor's iron brace.

The pure soul shall mount on native wings, . . . and cut a path into the heaven of glory.

Every thing possible to be believ'd is an image of truth.