Filled With Her Love, May

Poetry Is A Counterfeit Creation, And Makes Things That Are Not, As Though They Were

Whoever Loves, If He Do Not Propose The Right True End Of Love, He's One That Goes To Sea For Nothing But To Make Him Sick.

How Imperfect Is All Our Knowledge!

Love, All Alike, No Season Knows, Nor Clime, Nor Hours, Days, Months, Which Are The Rags Of Time.

God Is So Omnipresent. . . . God Is An Angel In An Angel, And A Stone In A Stone, And A Straw In A Straw.