Farce Is Nearer Tragedy In Its Essence

The Fair Breeze Blew, The White Foam Flew, And The Forrow Followed Free. We Were The First To Ever Burst Into The Silent Sea.

The Secondary Imagination I Consider As An Echo Of The Former, Co-existing With The Conscious Will, Yet Still As Identical With The Primary In The Kind Of Its Agency, And Differing Only In Degree, And In The Mode Of Its Operation. It Dissolves, Diffuses, Dissipates, In Order To Recreate: Or Where This Process Is Rendered Impossible, Yet Still At All Events It Struggles To Idealize And To Unify. It Is Essentially Vital, Even As All Objects (as Objects) Are Essentially Fixed And Dead.

Nothing Great Was Ever Achieved Without Enthusiasm. For What Is Enthusiasm But The Oblivion And Swallowing-up Of Self In An Object Dearer Than Self?

Lovely Was The Death Of Him Whose Life Was Love! Holy With Power, He On The Thought-benighted Skeptic Beamed Manifest Godhead.

Never To See Or Describe Any Interesting Appearance In Nature, Without Connecting It By Dim Analogies With The Moral World, Proves Faintness Of Impression. Nature Has Her Proper Interest; & He Will Know What It Is, Who Believes & Feels, That Every Thing Has A Life Of It's Own, & That We Are All One Life.