You Do Not Believe, You Only Believe

Oh Sleep! It Is A Gentle Thing, Beloved From Pole To Pole.

During The Act Of Knowledge Itself, The Objective And Subjective Are So Instantly United, That We Cannot Determine To Which Of The Two The Priority Belongs.

An Idea, In The Highest Sense Of That Word, Cannot Be Conveyed But By A Symbol.

Remorse Weeps Tears Of Blood.

So Will I Build My Altar In The Fields, And The Blue Sky My Fretted Dome Shall Be, And The Sweet Fragrance That The Wild Flower Yields Shall Be The Incense I Will Yield To Thee.