Literary men are . . . a perpetual priesthood.
Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
The excellence of every art is its intensity, capable of making all disagreeables evaporate, from their being in close relationship with beauty and truth.
Already with thee! tender is the night. . . But here there is no light. . .
Thou art a dreaming thing, A fever of thyself.
Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul.