One Power alone makes a Poet: Imagination. The Divine Vision.

The ancient Poets animated all sensible objects with Gods or Geniuses, calling them by the names and adorning them with the properties of woods, rivers, mountains, lakes, cities, nations, and whatever their enlarged & numerous senses could perceive.

As a man is, so he sees. As the eye is formed, such are its powers.

There is a place where Contrarieties are equally True.

The world of imagination is the world of eternity. It is the divine bosom into which we shall all go after death of the vegetative body.

Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night.

I went to the Garden of Love, And saw what I never had seen: A Chapel was built in the midst, Where I used to play on the green. And the gates of this Chapel were shut, And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door; So I turn'd to the Garden of Love, That so many sweet flowers bore. And I saw it was filled with graves, And tomb-stones where flowers should be: And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds, And binding with briars, my joys & desires.