What You Look At Hard Seems To

When I Compare Myself, My Being-myself, With Anything Else Whatever, All Things Alike, All In The Same Degree, Rebuff Me With Blank Unlikeness.

Glory Be To God For Dappled Things- For Skies Of Couple-colour As A Brinded Cow; For Rose-moles All In Stipple Upon Trout That Swim; Fresh-firecoal Chestnut-falls; Finches' Wings; Landscape Plotted And Pieced-fold, Fallow, And Plough; And áll Trádes, Their Gear And Tackle And Trim. All Things Counter, Original, Spare, Strange; Whatever Is Fickle, Freckled (who Knows How?) With Swift, Slow; Sweet, Sour; Adazzle, Dim; He Fathers-forth Whose Beauty Is Past Change: Praise Him.

It Is A Happy Thing That There Is No Royal Road To Poetry. The World Should Know By This Time That One Cannot Reach Parnassus Except By Flying Thither.

The World Is Charged With The Grandeur Of God. It Will Flame Out, Like Shining From Shook Foil; It Gathers To A Greatness, Like The Ooze Of Oil Crushed.

O The Mind, Mind Has Mountains; Cliffs Of Fall Frightful, Sheer, No-man-fathomed. Hold Them Cheap May Who Ne'er Hung There. Nor Does Long Our Small Durance Deal With That Steep Or Deep.