This Sort Of Adoration Of The Real

Religion-freedom-vengeance-what You Will, A Word's Enough To Raise Mankind To Kill.

There's Not A Sea The Passenger E'er Pukes In, Turns Up More Dangerous Breakers Than The Euxine.

Mont Blanc Is The Monarch Of Mountains; They Crown'd Him Long Ago On A Throne Of Rocks, In A Robe Of Clouds, With A Diadem Of Snow.

And Angling Too, That Solitary Vice, What Izaak Walton Sings Or Says: The Quaint, Old, Cruel Coxcomb, In His Gullet Should Have A Hook, And A Small Trout To Pull It.

I Live Not In Myself, But I Become Portion Of That Around Me: And To Me High Mountains Are A Feeling, But The Hum Of Human Cities Torture.