When I heard the learn’d astronomer; When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me; When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them; When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room, How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick; Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself, In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time, Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

Beautiful that war and all its deeds of carnage, must in time be utterly lost.

To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle. Every cubic inch of space is a miracle.

My call is the call of battle- I nourish active rebellion;/ He going with me must go well armed.

I dote on myself. There is a lot of me and all so luscious.

And your very flesh shall be a great poem.

It is a beautiful truth that all men contain something of the artist in them. And perhaps it is the case that the greatest artists live and die, the world and themselves alike ignorant what they possess.