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.
William BlakeThe world of imagination is the world of eternity. It is the divine bosom into which we shall all go after death of the vegetative body.
William Blake