The Nightmare Life-in-death Was She.

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

A Noise Like Of A Hidden Brook In The Leafy Month Of June, That To The Sleeping Woods All Night Singeth A Quiet Tune.

The Devil Is Not, Indeed, Perfectly Humorous, But That Is Only Because He Is The Extreme Of All Humor.

He Prayeth Best, Who Loveth Best All Things Both Great And Small; For The Dear God Who Loveth Us, He Made And Loveth All.

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.