You Do Not Believe, You Only Believe

How Inimitably Graceful Children Are In General-before They Learn To Dance.

The Form Of Truth Will Bear Exposure, As Well As That Of Beauty Herself.

Call Not That Man Wretched, Who Whatever Else He Suffers As To Pain Inflicted, Or Pleasure Denied, Has A Child For Whom He Hopes And On Whom He Doats.

And What If All Of Animated Nature Be But Organic Harps Diversely Framed, That Tremble Into Thought, As O'er Them Sweeps, Plastic And Vast, One Intellectual Breeze, At Once The Soul Of Each, And God Of All?

The Faults Of Great Authors Are Generally Excellences Carried To An Excess.