O Let Me Be Awake,

No Mind Is Thoroughly Well Organized That Is Deficient In A Sense Of Humor.

The Secondary Imagination I Consider As An Echo Of The Former, Co-existing With The Conscious Will, Yet Still As Identical With The Primary In The Kind Of Its Agency, And Differing Only In Degree, And In The Mode Of Its Operation. It Dissolves, Diffuses, Dissipates, In Order To Recreate: Or Where This Process Is Rendered Impossible, Yet Still At All Events It Struggles To Idealize And To Unify. It Is Essentially Vital, Even As All Objects (as Objects) Are Essentially Fixed And Dead.

I Wish Our Clever Young Poets Would Remember My Homely Definitions Of Prose And Poetry; That Is, Prose = Words In Their Best Order; - Poetry = The Best Words In The Best Order.

It Is A Gentle And Affectionate Thought, That In Immeasurable Height Above Us, At Our First Birth, The Wreath Of Love Was Woven With Sparkling Stars For Flowers.

...in Consequence Of The Film Of Familiarity And Selfish Solicitude, We Have Eyes Yet See Not, Ears That Hear Not, And Hearts That Neither Feel Nor Understand.