But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
From "Frost at Midnight" by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
High matter thou enjoin´st me, O prime of men,
Sad task and hard, for how shall I relate
To human sense th´invisible exploits
Of warring Spirits; how without remorse
The ruin of so many glorious once
And perfect while they stood; how last unfold
The secrets of another world, perhaps
Not lawful to reveal? yet for thy good
This is dispensed, and what surmounts the reach
Of human sense, I shall delineate so,
By lik´ning spiritual to corporeal forms,
As may express them best, though what if earth
Be but the shadow of Heav´n, and things therein
Each to other like, more than on earth is thought?
