The Same Heart Beats In Every Human

Come To Me In My Dreams, And Then By Day I Shall Be Well Again. For Then The Night Will More Than Pay The Hopeless Longing Of The Day.

Unquiet Souls. In The Dark Fermentation Of Earth, In The Never Idle Workshop Of Nature, In The Eternal Movement, Yea Shall Find Yourselves Again.

Saw Life Steadily And Saw It Whole.

Thou Waitest For The Spark From Heaven! And We, Light Half-believers In Our Casual Deeds . . . Who Hesitate And Falter Life Away, And Lose Tomorrow The Ground Won Today- Ah, Do Not We, Wanderer, Await It Too?

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.