Death, Thou Art Infinite; It Is Life

Worthy Books Are Not Companions – They Are Solitudes: We Lose Ourselves In Them And All Our Cares.

England! My Country, Great And Free! Heart Of The World, I Leap To Thee!

Night Comes, World-jewelled, . . . The Stars Rush Forth In Myriads As To Wage War With The Lines Of Darkness; And The Moon, Pale Ghost Of Night, Comes Haunting The Cold Earth After The Sun's Red Sea-death--quietless.

I Cannot Be Content With Less Than Heaven.

The Poet's Pen Is The True Divining Rod Which Trembles Towards The Inner Founts Of Feeling; Bringing To Light And Use, Else Hid From All, The Many Sweet Clear Sources Which We Have Of Good And Beauty In Our Own Deep Bosoms; And Marks The Variations Of All Mind As Does The Needle.