Science, Nature,-o, I've Yearned To

The Secret Of Poetry Is Never Explained,— Is Always New. We Have Not Got Farther Than Mere Wonder At The Delicacy Of The Touch, And The Eternity It Inherits. In Every House A Child That In Mere Play Utters Oracles, And Knows Not That They Are Such. 't Is As Easy As Breath. 't Is Like This Gravity, Which Holds The Universe Together, And None Knows What It Is.

There Is No Man Of Nature's Worth In The Circle Of The Earth.

Nature Always Wears The Colors Of The Spirit. To A Man Laboring Under Calamity, The Heat Of His Own Fire Hath Sadness In It.

There Is No Strong Performance Without A Little Fanaticism In The Performer.

Our Poets Are Men Of Talents Who Sing, And Not The Children Of Music.