It ran so: In the centre of all things is a mighty Heart, which, having begotten all things, loves them; and, having born them into life, beats with great throbs of love towards them.

No death for His dear insects, no hell for His dear men, no burning up for His dear world--His own, own world that he has made.

In the end all will be beautiful.

Do not ask us how we make our dream tally with facts; the glory of a dream is this--that it despises facts, and makes its own.

Our dream saves us from going mad; that is enough.
Its peculiar point of sweetness lay here.