The Grandeur Of The Dooms We Have

Thou, Silent Form, Dost Tease Us Out Of Thought As Doth Eternity.

For Axioms In Philosophy Are Not Axioms Until They Are Proved Upon Our Pulses.

The Roaring Of The Wind Is My Wife And The Stars Through The Window Pane Are My Children.

O Solitude! If I Must With Thee Dwell, Let It Not Be Among The Jumbled Heap Of Murky Buildings: Climb With Me The Steep,-- Nature's Observatory--whence The Dell, In Flowery Slopes, Its River's Crystal Swell, May Seem A Span; Let Me Thy Vigils Keep 'mongst Boughs Pavilion'd, Where The Deer's Swift Leap Startles The Wild Bee From The Foxglove Bell.

A Long Poem Is A Test Of Invention Which I Take To Be The Polar Star Of Poetry, As Fancy Is The Sails, And Imagination The Rudder.