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.

Englishmen are babes in philosophy and so prefer faction-fighting to the labour of its unfamiliar thought.

It's certain there is no fine thing Since Adam's fall but needs much laboring.

The true faith discovered was When painted panel, statuary, Glass-mosaic, window-glass, Amended what was told awry By some peasant gospeler.

Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?

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.

Words alone are certain good.