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.

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

We murder to dissect.

And I am happy when I sing.

A lake carries you into recesses of feeling otherwise impenetrable.

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.