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.

poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge

In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.

Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.

There is creation in the eye.

Yet tears to human suffering are due; And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown Are mourned by man, and not by man alone.