More than anything else$$$ the sensation [of flying] is one of perfect peace mingled with an excitement that strains every nerve to the utmost - if you can conceive of such a combination.
Words are too awful an instrument for good and evil to be trifled with: they hold above all other external powers a dominion over thoughts. If words be not (recurring to a metaphor before used) an incarnation of the thought but only a clothing for it$$$ then surely will they prove an ill gift; such a one as those poisoned vestments$$$ read of in the stories of superstitious times$$$ which had power to consume and to alienate from his right mind the victim who put them on.
The human mind is capable of excitement without the application of gross and violent stimulants; and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this...
Where are your books? - that light bequeathed<br>To beings else forlorn and blind!<br>Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed<br>From dead men to their kind.
The thought of our past years in me doth breed <br>Perpetual benediction: not indeed <br>For that which is most worthy to be blest <br>Delight and liberty$$$ the simple creed <br>Of Childhood$$$ whether busy or at rest$$$ <br>With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast.
From the body of one guilty deed a thousand ghostly fears and haunting thoughts proceed.
A simple child. <br>That lightly draws its breath. <br>And feels its life in every limb. <br>What should it know of death?
One impulse from a vernal wood <br>May teach you more of man$$$ <br>Of moral evil and of good$$$ <br>Than all the sages can.
The best portion of a good man's life: his little$$$ nameless unremembered acts of kindness and love.
Habit rules the unreflecting herd.