Joy Rises In Me, Like A Summer's

As I Live And Am A Man, This Is An Unexaggerated Tale - My Dreams Become The Substances Of My Life.

Joy Is The Sweet Voice, Joy The Luminous Cloud. We In Ourselves Rejoice! And Thence Flows All That Charms Or Ear Or Sight, All Melodies The Echoes Of That Voice, All Colours A Suffusion From That Light.

Truths ... Are Too Often Considered As So True, That They Lose All The Power Of Truth, And Lie Bed-ridden In The Dormitory Of The Soul, Side By Side With The Most Despised And Exploded Errors.

As A Man Without Forethought Scarcely Deserves The Name Of A Man, So Forethought Without Reflection Is But A Metaphorical Phrase For The Instinct Of A Beast.

Poor Little Foal Of An Oppressed Race! I Love The Languid Patience Of Thy Face.