How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they
The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.
It ought to come like the leaves to the trees, or it better not come at all.
Knowledge enormous makes a god of me.
... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence.