Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.

Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.

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.

The light that never was, on sea or land; The consecration, and the Poet's dream.

There is creation in the eye.

Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.

Me this uncharted freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.