Huge and mighty forms that do not live like living men, moved slowly through the mind by day and were trouble to my dreams.

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.

Spires whose "silent finger points to heaven."

Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.

Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice; The confidence of reason give, And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live!

Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.

When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.