The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.

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.

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

I have no name: I am but two days old. What shall I call thee? I happy am, Joy is my name. Sweet joy befall thee!

Imagination is the real and eternal world of which this vegetable universe is but a faint shadow.

The eye altering, alters all.

Can I see another's woe, and not be in sorrow too? Can I see another's grief, and not seek for kind relief?