Plain living and high thinking are no more.

But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.

On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.

Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.

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

If the time should ever come when what is now called Science, thus famliarised to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to the aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man.

Delivered from the galling yoke of time.