To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.

Not Chaos, not the darkest pit of lowest Erebus, nor aught of blinder vacancy, scooped out by help of dreams - can breed such fear and awe as fall upon us often when we look into our Minds, into the Mind of Man.

He who feels contempt for any living thing hath faculties that he hath never used, and thought with him is in its infancy.

Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made.

This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!