Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.

...one interior life in which all beings live with God, themselves are God, existing in the mighty whole, indistinguishable as the cloudless east is from the cloudless west, when all the hemisphere is one cerulean blue.

Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.

Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.

Pictures deface walls more often than they decorate them.

Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.

Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect