Thrice round the neck with longing I essayed / to clasp the phantom in a wild delight; / thrice, vainly clasped, the visionary shade / mocked me embracing, and was lost to sight, / swift as a winged wind or slumber of the night.

The air was filled with phantoms, wandering hither and thither in restless haste, and moaning as they went.

Returning, I had to cross before the looking-glass; my fascinated glance involuntarily explored the depth it revealed. All looked colder and darker in that visionary hollow than in reality: and the strange little figure there gazing at me, with a white face and arms specking the gloom, and glittering eyes of fear moving where all else was still, had the effect of a real spirit: I thought it like one of the tiny phantoms, half fairy, half imp, Bessie’s evening stories represented as coming out of lone, ferny dells in moors, and appearing before the eyes of belated travelers.

The Phantom slowly, gravely, silently, approached.

I caught a glimpse of the phantom sitting behind the wheel.

The first revolt is against the supreme tyranny of theology, of the phantom of God. As long as we have a master in heaven, we will be slaves on earth.