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. . .We be cast low; for why? the sportfull love

of our great Maker (like as mothers dear

in pleasance from them do their children shove

that back again they may recoyl more near)

shoves of our soules a while, the more them to endear.

—Henry More, “The Preexistency of the Soul”

For, if I imp my wing on thine,

Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

—George Herbert, “Easter Wings”

We are created by being destroyed.

—Franz Wright, “Letter”