The blessed spirits must be sought within the self which is common to all

Time drops in decay Like a candle burnt out. And the mountains and woods Have their day, have their day; But, kindly old rout Of the fire-born moods, You pass not away.

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.

Homer is my example and his unchristened heart.

I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.

The intellect of man is forced to choose Perfection of the life, or of the work And if it take the second must refuse A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.

Take, if you must, this little bag of dreams, Unloose the cord, and they will wrap you round.