Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.
poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge
As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.
Delivered from the galling yoke of time.
In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.