A rogue's tragedy

Matter is but the eternal dressing of the imagination; the world the unconscious self-delusion of a Spirit. Everything springs from Love, and Love is the dreaming God. Two figments of that endless sweet obsession stood alone-high on a slope of Alp this time. Born of a dream to flesh, they thought they owed themselves to flesh-a sacred debt. Truth seemed as plain to them as pebbles in a brook, which lie round and firm for all their apparent shaking under ripples. There, actual to their eyes,...