I went out to the hazelwood because a fire was in my head.

For Death who takes what man would keep, Leaves what man would lose.

Heaven blazing into the head: Tragedy wrought to its uttermost. Though Hamlet rambles and Lear rages And all the drop-scenes drop at once Upon a hundred thousand stages It cannot grow by an inch or an ounce.

Players and painted stage took all my love, And not those things that they were emblems of.

A lonely impulse of delight

I pray-for fashion's word is out And prayer comes round again- That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.

Bid imagination run / Much on the Great Questioner; / What He can question, what if questioned I / Can with a fitting confidence reply.