Time, The Foe Of Man's Dominion, Wheels

Seamen Three! What Men Be Ye? Gotham's Three Wise Men We Be. Whither In Your Bowl So Free? To Rake The Moon From Out The Sea. The Bowl Goes Trim. The Moon Doth Shine, And Our Ballast Is Old Wine.

Tea, Late Dinners And The French Revolution. I Cannot Exactly See The Connection Of Ideas.

Not Drunk Is He Who From The Floor - Can Rise Alone And Still Drink More; But Drunk Is They, Who Prostrate Lies, Without The Power To Drink Or Rise.

The Truth, I Am Convinced, Is That There Is No Longer A Poetical Audience Among The Higher Class Of Minds, That Moral, Political, And Physical Science Have Entirely Withdrawn From Poetry The Attention Of All Whose Attention Is Worth Having; And That The Poetical Reading Public Being Composed Of The Mere Dregs Of The Intellectual Community, The Most Sufficing Passport To Their Favour Must Rest On The Mixture Of A Little Easily-intelligible Portion Of Mawkish Sentiment With An Absolute Negation Of Reason And Knowledge.

I Like The Immaterial World. I Like To Live Among Thoughts And Images Of The Past And The Possible, And Even Of The Impossible, Now And Then.