Of writing many books there is no end; And I who have written much in prose and verse For others' uses, will write now for mine,— Will write my story… - Elizabeth Barrett Browning

And truly, I reiterate, . . nothing's small! No lily-muffled hum of a summer-bee, But finds some coupling with the spinning stars; No pebble at your foot, but proves a sphere; No chaffinch, but implies the cherubim: And, — glancing on my own thin, veined wrist, — In such a little tremour of the blood The whole strong clamour of a vehement soul Doth utter itself distinct. Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God: But only he who sees, takes off his shoes, The rest sit round it, and pluck blackberries, And daub their natural faces unaware
More and more, from the first similitude.

Yes, I answered you last night;
No, this morning, sir, I say:
Colors seen by candle-light
Will not look the same by day.

You're something between a dream and a miracle.