Thoughts are a kind of strange celestial creature
That when they're good, they're such in every feature.
They bear the image of their Father's face,
And beautify even all His dwelling-place:
So nimble, volatile, and unconfined,
Illimited, to which no form's assigned,
So changeable, capacious, easy, free,
That what itself doth please a thought may be.
From nothing to infinity it turns,
Even in a moment: Now like fire it burns,