Man Is Born Passionate Of Body, But

The Image Of Eternity--the Throne Of The Invisible; Even From Out Thy Slime The Monsters Of The Deep Are Made; Each Zone Obeys Thee; Thou Goest Forth, Dread, Fathomless, Alone.

There Is Music In All Things, If Men Had Ears.

Ancient Of Days! August Athena! Where, Where Are Thy Men Of Might? Thy Grand In Soul? Gone--glimmering Through The Dream Of Things That Were; First In The Race That Led To Glory's Goal, They Won, And Pass'd Away--is This The Whole?

Nothing So Difficult As A Beginning In Poesy, Unless Perhaps The End.

To Withdraw Myself From Myself Has Ever Been My Sole, My Entire, My Sincere Motive In Scribbling At All.