And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone.

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

I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .

I heard the old, old, men say 'all that's beautiful drifts away, like the waters.'

Locke sank into a swoon; The Garden died; God took the spinning-jenny Out of his side.

The creations of a great writer are little more than the moods and passions of his own heart, given surnames and Christian names, and sent to walk the earth.