How do you know but ev’ry Bird that cuts the airy way, Is an immense world of delight, clos’d by your senses five?

More! More! is the cry of a mistaken soul.

He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.

I am more famed in Heaven for my works than I could well conceive. In my brain are studies & chambers filled with books & pictures of old, which I wrote and painted in ages of Eternity before my mortal life; and whose works are the delight & study of Archangels. Why, then, should I be anxious about the riches or fame of mortality?

I give you the end of a golden string, Only wind it into a ball, It will lead you in at Heaven's gate Built in Jerusalem's wall.

Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty !

When the doors of perception are cleansed, men will see things as they truly are, infinite.