What! Alive, And So Bold, O Earth?

All High Poetry Is Infinite; It Is As The First Acorn, Which Contained All Oaks Potentially.

Power, Like A Desolating Pestilence, Pollutes Whatever It Touches.

The One Remains, The Many Change And Pass; Heaven's Light Forever Shines, Earth's Shadows Fly; Life, Like A Dome Of Many-coloured Glass, Stains The White Radiance Of Eternity, Until Death Tramples It To Fragments.

I Consider Poetry Very Subordinate To Moral And Political Science.

Let The Blue Sky Overhead, The Green Earth On Which Ye Tread, All That Must Eternal Be Witness The Solemnity.