In a fleshly tomb, I am buried above ground.

Still ending, and beginning still.

There is a pleasure in poetic pains / Which only poets know.

Meditation here may think down hours to moments. Here the heart may give a useful lesson to the head and learning wiser grow without his books.

God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform. He plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.

The parable of the prodigal son, the most beautiful fiction that ever was invented; our Saviour's speech to His disciples, with which He closed His earthly ministrations, full of the sublimest dignity and tenderest affection, surpass everything that I ever read; and like the spirit by which they were dictated, fly directly to the heart.

Religion, richest favor of the skies.