My mother groaned, my father wept, into the dangerous world I leapt.

Better to shun the bait than struggle in the snare.

And I made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every Child may joy to hear.

As I was walking among the fires of Hell, delighted with the enjoyments of Genius; which to Angels look like torment and insanity, I collected some of their Proverbs.

You've always had the power right there in your shoes, you just had to learn it for yourself.

O thou who passest through our valleys in Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat That flames from their large nostrils! Thou, O Summer, Oft pitchest here thy golden tent, and oft Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

Every Night and every Morn Some to Misery are born. Every Morn and every Night Some are born to Sweet Delight, Some are born to Endless Night.