Who hath not own'd, with rapture-smitten frame, The power of grace, the magic of a name.

The patriot's blood is the seed of Freedom's tree.

Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of the day, spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay.

The being level speaks the language of art, music, color shape and pattern directly -- a language that requires no words -- is not limited by words -- nor does it have the specificity of words and thus cannot be broken onto parts that can be manipulated or analyzed by the intellect. It must be swallowed, whole not parsed, sorted and justified.

Love's a fire that needs renewal Of fresh beauty for its fuel.

Men of England! who inheritRights that cost your sires their blood.

O leave this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree.