Our sweet illusions are half of them conscious illusions—like effects of colour that we know to be made up of tinsel, broken glass, and rags.
George Eliot (The Lifted Veil).
My Galligaskins that have long withstood
The Winter’s Fury, and incroaching Frosts,
By Time subdued, (what will not Time subdue!)
An horrid Chasm disclose, with Orifice
Wide, discontinuous.