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I know no subject more elevating, more amazing, more ready to the poetical enthusiasm, the philosophical reflection, and the moral sentiment than the works of nature. Where can we meet such variety, such beauty, such magnificence?
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For life is but a dream whose shapes return, Some frequently, some seldom, some by night And some by day,
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Once in a stately passion / I cried with desperate grief,/ 'O Lord, my heart is black with guile,/ Of sinners I am chief.'
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The City is of Night; perchance of Death, But certainly of Night; for never there...
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A little, round, fat, oily man of God.
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