A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken.
The feel of not to feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbed sense to steel it.
It ought to come like the leaves to the trees, or it better not come at all.
O Solitude! If I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap of murky buildings
I will clamber through the clouds and exist.