The ancient Poets animated all sensible objects with Gods or Geniuses, calling them by the names and adorning them with the properties of woods, rivers, mountains, lakes, cities, nations, and whatever their enlarged & numerous senses could perceive.
The crow wished everything was black, the Owl, that everything was white.
The stars are threshed, and the souls are threshed from their husks.
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand.
I cry, Love! Love! Love! happy happy Love! free as the mountain wind!
There is no mistake so great as the mistake of not going on.