Joys Impregnate. Sorrows Bring Forth.

God Appears, And God Is Light, To Those Poor Souls Who Dwell In Night; But Does A Human Form Display To Those Who Dwell In Realms Of Day.

None But Blockheads Copy Each Other.

Holy, Holy, Holy Is The Lord God Almighty !

Like A Fiend In A Cloud, With Howling Woe, After Night I Do Crowd, And With Night Will Go; I Turn My Back To The East, From Whence Comforts Have Increased; For Light Doth Seize My Brain With Frantic Pain.

It Is An Easy Thing To Talk Of Patience To The Afflicted.