Finite to fail, but infinite to venture.
Drab Habitation of Whom? Tabernacle or Tomb -- or Dome of Worm -- or Porch of Gnome -- or some Elf's Catacomb?
To live is so starling it leaves little time for anything else.
There is no Frigate like a book to take us lands away nor any coursers like a page of prancing Poetry.
Where thou art, that is home.
Faith is a fine invention when Gentleman can see -- but microscopes are prudent in an emergency
He ate and drank the precious Words, his Spirit grew robust; He knew no more that he was poor, nor that his frame was Dust.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul -- and sings the tunes without the words -- and never stops at all.
His mind of man, a secret makes I meet him with a start he carries a circumference in which I have no part.
Of Consciousness, her awful Mate. The Soul cannot be rid -- as easy the secreting her behind the Eyes of God.
His Labor is a Chant -- his Idleness -- a Tune -- oh, for a Bee's experience of Clovers, and of Noon!
To fight aloud is very brave, but gallanter, I know, who charge within the bosom, the Cavalry of Woe.