I Think I Shall Be Among The

The Genius Of Poetry Must Work Out Its Own Salvation In A Man; It Cannot Be Matured By Law And Precept, But By Sensation And Watchfulness In Itself. That Which Is Creative Must Create Itself.

How Astonishingly Does The Chance Of Leaving The World Improve A Sense Of Its Natural Beauties Upon Us. Like Poor Falstaff, Although I Do Not 'babble,' I Think Of Green Fields; I Muse With The Greatest Affection On Every Flower I Have Know From My Infancy - Their Shapes And Colours Are As New To Me As If I Had Just Created Them With Superhuman Fancy.

Whatever The Imagination Seizes As Beauty Must Be Truth -whether It Existed Before Or Not

Through The Dancing Poppies Stole A Breeze, Most Softly Lulling To My Soul.

Scenery Is Fine - But Human Nature Is Finer.