I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright. - Percy Bysshe Shelley

It is probable that what we call thought is not an actual being, but no more than the relation between certain parts of that infinitely varied mass, of which the rest of the universe is composed, and which ceases to exist as soon as those parts change their position with regard to each other.

The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow.

What is life? Thoughts and feelings arise, with or without our will, and we employ words to express them. We are born, and our birth is unremembered and our infancy remembered but in fragments. We live on, and in living we lose the apprehension of life. How vain is it to think that words can penetrate the mystery of our being. Rightly used they may make evident our ignorance of ourselves, and this is much.