The moon like a flower In heaven's high bower, With silent delight, Sits and smiles on the night. - William Blake

You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough.

Love seeketh not Itself to please
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair.'

So sung a little Clod of Clay
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet:

'Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to Its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite.

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