Bells, The Poor Man's Only Music.

Motives Are Symptoms Of Weakness, And Supplements For The Deficient Energy Of The Living Principle, The Law Within Us. Let Them Then Be Reserved For Those Momentous Acts And Duties In Which The Strongest And Best-balanced Natures Must Feel Themselves Deficient, And Where Humility No Less Than Prudence Prescribes Deliberation.

The Primary Imagination I Hold To Be The Living Power And Prime Agent Of All Human Perception, And As A Repetition In The Finite Mind Of The Eternal Act Of Creation In The Infinite I Am.

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.

Our Quaint Metaphysical Opinions, In An Hour Of Anguish, Are Like Playthings By The Bedside Of A Child Deathly Sick.

The Man Hath Penance Done, And Penance More Will Do.