An Undevout Poet Is An Impossibility.

You See How This House Of Commons Has Begun To Verify All The Ill Prophecies That Were Made Of It - Low, Vulgar, Meddling With Everything, Assuming Universal Competency, And Flattering Every Base Passion - And Sneering At Everything Noble Refined And Truly National. The Direct Tyranny Will Come On By And By, After It Shall Have Gratified The Multitude With The Spoil And Ruin Of The Old Institutions Of The Land.

I Feel As If God Had, By Giving The Sabbath, Given Fifty-two Springs In Every Year.

You Do Not Believe, You Only Believe That You Believe.

The Poet Is The Man Made To Solve The Riddle Of The Universe Who Brings The Whole Soul Of Man Into Activity.

Come, Come Thou Bleak December Wind, And Blow The Dry Leaves From The Tree! Flash, Like A Love-thought, Thro'me, Death And Take A Life That Wearies Me.