Though My Verse But Roam

Doth Nature Draw Me, 'tis Because, Unto My Seeming, There Doth Lurk A Lawlessness About Her Laws, More Mood Than Purpose In Her Work.

From Sunny Woof And Cloudy Weft Fell Rain In Sheets; So, To Myself I Hummed These Hazard Rhymes, And Left The Learned Volume On The Shelf.

Never Did Form More Fairy Thread The Dance Than She Who Scours The Hills To Find It Flowers; Never Did Sweeter Lips Chained Ears Entrance Than Hers That Move, True To Its Striking Hours; No Hands So White E'er Decked The Warrior's Lance, As Those Which Tend Its Lamp As Darkness Lours; And Never Since Dear Christ Expired For Man, Had Holy Shrine So Fair A Sacristan.

Imagination In Poetry, As Distinguished From Mere Fancy Is The Transfiguring Of The Real Or Actual To The Ideal.

Exclusiveness In A Garden Is A Mistake As Great As It Is In Society.