Coldly, Sadly Descends The Autumn Evening. The

Culture, The Acquainting Ourselves With The Best That Has Been Known And Said In The World, And Thus With The History Of The Human Spirit.

Ah! Two Desires Toss About The Poet's Feverish Blood; One Drives Him To The World Without, And One To Solitude.

The Interpretations Of Science Do Not Give Us This Intimate Sense Of Objects As The Interpretations Of Poetry Give It; They Appeal To A Limited Faculty, And Not To The Whole Man. It Is Not Linnaeus Or Cavendish Or Cuvier Who Gives Us The True Sense Of Animals, Or Water, Or Plants, Who Seizes Their Secret For Us, Who Makes Us Participate In Their Life; It Is Shakspeare [sic] … Wordsworth … Keats … Chateaubriand … Senancour.

Thou Waitest For The Spark From Heaven! And We, Light Half-believers In Our Casual Deeds . . . Who Hesitate And Falter Life Away, And Lose Tomorrow The Ground Won Today- Ah, Do Not We, Wanderer, Await It Too?

It Is - Last Stage Of All When We Are Frozen Up Within, And Quite The Phantom Of Ourselves To Hear The World Applaud The Hollow Ghost Which Blamed The Living Man