Earth helped him with the cry of blood.
Since every mortal power of Coleridge Was frozen at its marvellous source, The rapt one, of the godlike forehead, The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth: And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.
There is creation in the eye.
Free as a bird to settle where I will.
In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.