All Writing Is A Form Of Prayer.

Ghosts Of Melodious Prophesyings Rave Round Every Spot Where Trod Apollo's Foot; Bronze Clarions Awake, And Faintly Bruit, Where Long Ago A Giant Battle Was; And, From The Turf, A Lullaby Doth Pass In Every Place Where Infant Orpheus Slept. Feel We These Things? - That Moment Have We Stept Into A Sort Of Oneness, And Our State Is Like A Floating Spirit's. But There Are Richer Entanglements, Enthralments Far More Self-destroying, Leading, By Degrees, To The Chief Intensity: The Crown Of These Is Made Of Love And Friendship, And Sits High Upon The Forehead Of Humanity.

Let Us Not Go Hurrying About And Collecting Honey, Bee-like Buzzing Here And There For A Knowledge Of What Is Not To Be Arrived At, But Let Us Open Our Leaves Like A Flower, And Be Passive And Receptive, Budding Patiently Under The Eye Of Apollo, And Taking Hints From Every Noble Insect That Favours Us With A Visit - Sap Will Be Given Us For Meat And Dew For Drink.

O Aching Time! O Moments Big As Years!

Though The Most Beautiful Creature Were Waiting For Me At The End Of A Journey Or A Walk; Though The Carpet Were Of Silk, The Curtains Of The Morning Clouds; The Chairs And Sofa Stuffed With Cygnet's Down; The Food Manna, The Wine Beyond Claret, The Window Opening On Winander Mere, I Should Not Feel -or Rather My Happiness Would Not Be So Fine, As My Solitude Is Sublime.

Philosophy Will Clip An Angel's Wings.