What you look at hard seems to look at you.

What you look at hard seems to look at you.

Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the Stooks arise Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behavior Of silk-sack clouds! Has wilder, willful-waiver Meal-drift molded ever and melted across skies?

The poetical language of an age should be the current language heightened.

Do you know, a horrible thing has happened to me. I have begun to doubt Tennyson.

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame

O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap May who ne'er hung there. Nor does long our small Durance deal with that steep or deep.