All Nature Seems At Work.

If A Man Could Pass Through Paradise In A Dream, And Have A Flower Presented To Him As A Pledge That His Soul Had Really Been There, And If He Found That Flower In His Hand When He Awake - Aye, What Then?

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

We Ought Not To Extract Pernicious Honey From Poison Blossoms Of Misrepresentation And Mendacious Half-truth, To Pamper The Course Appetite Of Bigotry And Self-love.

In What Way, Or By What Manner Of Working, God Changes A Soul From Evil To Good, How He Impregnates The Barren Rock--the Priceless Gems And Gold--is To The Human Mind An Impenetrable Mystery, In All Cases Alike.

The Fancy Is Indeed No Other Than A Mode Of Memory Emancipated From The Order Of Time And Space.