Load Every Rift With Ore.

I Am Certain Of Nothing But The Holiness Of The Heart's Affections, And The Truth Of Imagination.

Where Soil Is, Men Grow, Whether To Weeds Or Flowers.

Death Is Life's High Meed.

Poetry Should Be Great And Unobtrusive, A Thing Which Enters Into One's Soul, And Does Not Startle It Or Amaze It With Itself, But With Its Subject.

The Silver, Snarling Trumpets 'gan To Chide.