The vision of Christ that thou dost see Is my vision's greatest enemy.

Ah, sunflower, weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun, Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the traveller's journey is done; Where the youth pined away with desire And the pale virgin shrouded in snow Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my sunflower wishes to go.

Sweet babe, in thy face Soft desires I can trace, Secret joys and secret smiles, Little pretty infant wiles.

Thou fair-hair'd angel of the evening, Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!

Men are admitted into heaven not because they have curbed or governed their passions, but because they have cultivate their understandings.

To cast aside from Poetry, all that is not Inspiration

Nature has no outline. Imagination has.