'Spirit of Nature! all sufficing Power,
Necessity! thou mother of the world!
Unlike the God of human error, thou
Requir'st no prayers or praises; the caprice
Of man's weak will belongs no more to thee
Than do the changeful passions of his breast
To thy unchanging harmony: the slave,
Whose horrible lusts spread misery over the world,
And the good man, who lifts, with virtuous pride,
His being, in the sight of happiness,
That springs from his own work; the poison tree,
Beneath whose shade all life is withered up,
And the fair oak, whose leafy dome affords
A temple where the vows of happy love
Are registered, are equal in thy sight:
No love, no hate thou cherishest; revenge
And favouritism, and worst desire of fame
Thou know'st not: all that the wide world contains
Are but thy passive instruments, and thou
Regard them all with an impartial eye,
Whose joy or pain thy nature cannot feel,
Because thou hast not human sense,
Becuae thou art not human mind.

--from Queen Mab, Percy Shelley