Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
His religion at best is an anxious wish,-like that of Rabelais, a great Perhaps.
When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain".
A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory, and very few eyes can see the mystery of his life, a life like the scriptures, figurative.
O Solitude! If I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap of murky buildings
What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?