Earth, With Her Thousand Voices, Praises God.

Milton Had A Highly Imaginative, Cowley A Very Fanciful Mind.

The Genius Of Coleridge Is Like A Sunken Treasure Ship, And Coleridge A Diver Too Timid And Lazy To Bring Its Riches To The Surface.

The Imagination ... That Reconciling And Mediatory Power, Which Incorporating The Reason In Images Of The Sense And Organizing (as It Were) The Flux Of The Senses By The Permanence And Self-circling Energies Of The Reason, Gives Birth To A System Of Symbols, Harmonious In Themselves, And Consubstantial With The Truths Of Which They Are The Conductors.

The Secondary Imagination I Consider As An Echo Of The Former, Co-existing With The Conscious Will, Yet Still As Identical With The Primary In The Kind Of Its Agency, And Differing Only In Degree, And In The Mode Of Its Operation. It Dissolves, Diffuses, Dissipates, In Order To Recreate: Or Where This Process Is Rendered Impossible, Yet Still At All Events It Struggles To Idealize And To Unify. It Is Essentially Vital, Even As All Objects (as Objects) Are Essentially Fixed And Dead.

Heart-chilling Superstition! Thou Canst Glaze Even Pity's Eye With Her Own Frozen Tear.