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.

But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.

Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.

The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!

Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?

No motion has she now, no force; she neither hears nor sees; rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.