I sat, a solitary man, In a crowded London shop, An open book and empty cup On the marble table-top. While on the shop and street I gazed My body of a sudden blazed; And twenty minutes more or less It seemed, so great my happiness, That I was blessed and could bless.

I have grown to believe that there is no dangerous idea, which does not become less dangerous when written out in sincere and careful English.

For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon.

BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there.

It seems that I must bid the Muse to pack, / Choose Plato and Plotinus for a friend / Until imagination, ear and eye, / Can be content with argument and deal / In abstract things; or be derided by / A sort of battered kettle at the heel.

Only that which does not teach, which does not cry out, which does not condescend, which does not explain, is irresistible.

We cannot doubt that barbaric people receive such influences more visibly and obviously, and in all likelihood more easily and fully than we do, for our life in cities, which deafens or kills the passive meditative life, and our education that enlarges the separated, self-moving mind, have made our souls less sensitive.