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.

We are closed in, and the key is turned / On our uncertainty.

Swift has sailed into his rest; Savage indignation there Cannot lacerate his breast Imitate him if you dare, World-besotted traveler; he Served human liberty.

I am of a healthy long lived race, and our minds improve with age.

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.

All empty souls tend toward extreme opinions.

The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away.