Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.

Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science

The vision and the faculty divine; Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.

But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?

Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.

But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant

Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.