Bee to the blossom, moth to the flame; Each to his passion; what's in a name? - Helen Hunt Jackson

Then, gazing around, looking up at the lofty pinnacles above, which seemed to pierce the sky, looking down upon the world,—it seemed the whole world, so limitless it stretched away at her feet,—feeling that infinite unspeakable sense of nearness to Heaven, remoteness from earth which comes only on mountain heights, she drew in a long breath of delight, and cried: "At last! At last, Alessandro! Here we are safe! This is freedom! This is Joy!"

When on the ground red apples lie
In piles like jewels shining,
And redder still on old stone walls
Are leaves of woodbines twining.

[A]ll lost things are in the angels' keeping, Love;
No past is dead for us, but only sleeping, Love.