You Do Not Believe, You

And In Today Already Walks Tomorrow.

Ah! From The Soul Itself Must Issue Forth A Light, A Glory, A Fair Luminous Cloud Enveloping The Earth.

Cant Is The Parrot Talk Of A Profession.

Falsehood Is Fire In Stubble; It Likewise Turns All The Light Stuff Around It Into Its Own Substance For A Moment, One Crackling Blazing Moment, And Then Dies; And All Its Converts Are Scattered In The Wind, Without Place Or Evidence Of Their Existence, As Viewless As The Wind Which Scatters Them.

The Spirit Of Poetry, Like All Other Living Powers, Must Of Necessity Circumscribe Itself By Rules, Were It Only To Unite Power With Beauty.