Cruel, But Composed And Bland, Dumb, Inscrutable

The Heart Less Bounding At Emotion New, The Hope, Once Crushed, Less Quick To Spring Again.

Not Deep The Poet Sees, But Wide.

Resolve To Be Thyself: And Know That He Who Finds Himself, Loses His Misery.

And Thou, Who Didst The Stars And Sunbeams Know, / Self-schooled, Self-scanned, Self-honoured, Self-secure / Didst Tread On Earth Unguessed At. Better So!.

For Poetry The Idea Is Everything; The Rest Is A World Of Illusion, Of Divine Illusion. Poetry Attaches Its Emotion To The Idea; The Idea Is The Fact. The Strongest Part Of Our Religion Today Is Its Unconscious Poetry.