Being All Fashioned Of The Self-same Dust,

All Nature ... Is A Respiration Of The Spirit Of God, Who, In Breathing Hereafter Will Inhale It Into His Bosom Again, So That Nothing But God Alone Will Remain.

The Tragic Element In Poetry Is Like Saturn In Alchemy, — The Malevolent, The Destroyer Of Nature ; But Without It No True Aurum Potabile, Or Elixir Of Life, Can Be Made.

A Millstone And The Human Heart Are Driven Ever Round, If They Have Nothing Else To Grind, They Must Themselves Be Ground.

Winter Giveth The Fields, And The Trees So Old, Their Beards Of Icicles And Snow.

Defeat May Be Victory In Disguise.