I Must Choose Between Despair And Energy──i

Thou Foster-child Of Silence And Slow Time.

When I Behold, Upon The Night's Starr'd Face, Huge Cloudy Symbols Of A High Romance, And Think That I May Never Live To Trace Their Shadows, With The Magic Hand Of Chance.

Nothing Is Finer For The Purposes Of Great Productions Than A Very Gradual Ripening Of The Intellectual Powers.

It Keeps Eternal Whisperings Around Desolate Shores

Pensive They Sit, And Roll Their Languid Eyes.