To number every mystery were to sum the sum of all things:
None can exhaust a theme, whereof God is example and similitude.
Nevertheless, take a garland from the garden, a handful from the harvest,
Some scattered drops of spray from the ceaseless mighty cataract.
Whence are we,—whither do we tend,—how do we feel, and reason?
How strange a thing is man, a spirit saturating clay!
When doth soul make embryos immortal,—how do they rank hereafter,—
And will the unconscious idiot be quenched in death as nothing?
In essence immaterial, are these minds, as it were, thinking machines?
For, to understand may but rightly be to use a mechanism all possess,