Life Is Not Having And Getting, But

But There Remains The Question: What Righteousness Really Is. The Method And Secret And Sweet Reasonableness Of Jesus.

Sand-strewn Caverns, Cool And Deep, Where The Winds Are All Asleep; Where The Spent Lights Quiver And Gleam; Where The Salt Weed Sways In The Stream.

Without Poetry Our Science Will Appear Incomplete, And Most Of What Now Passes With Us For Religion And Philosophy Will Be Replaced By Poetry.

Nothing Could Moderate, In The Bosom Of The Great English Middle Class, Their Passionate, Absorbing, Almost Blood-thirsty Clinging To Life.

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.