So Full Of Shapes Is Fancy That

Alas, That Love, Whose View Is Muffled Still, Should Without Eyes See Pathways To His Will!

The Labor We Delight In Physics [cures] Pain.

The Southern Wind Doth Play The Trumpet To His Purposes; And, By His Hollow Whistling In The Leaves, Foretells A Tempest And A Blustering Day.

Life... Is A Paradise To What We Know Of Death.

They That Have Voice Of Lions And Act Of Hares,--are They Not Monsters?