Dream, dream, for this is also sooth.

Love is created and preserved by intellectual analysis, for we love only that which is unique, and it belongs to contemplation, not to action, for we would not change that which we love.

Odor of blood when Christ was slain Made all Platonic tolerance vain And vain all Doric discipline.

If soul my look and body touch, Which is the more blest?

The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves The brilliant moon and all the milky sky And all that famous harmony of leaves Had blotted out man's image and his cry.

Even when the poet seems most himself . . . he is never the bundle of accident and incoherence that sits down to breakfast; he has been reborn as an idea, something intended, complete.

How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?