And The Earth Self-balanced On Her Centre

The Never-ending Flight Of Future Days.

And That Must End Us, That Must Be Our Cure: To Be No More. Sad Cure! For Who Would Lose, Though Full Of Pain, This Intellectual Being, Those Thoughts That Wander Through Eternity, To Perish, Rather, Swallowed Up And Lost In The Wide Womb Of Uncreated Night Devoid Of Sense And Motion?

Some Say No Evil Thing That Walks By Night, In Fog Or Fire, By Lake Or Moorish Fen, Blue Meagre Hag, Or Stubborn Unlaid Ghost That Breaks His Magic Chains At Curfew Time, No Goblin, Or Swart Fairy Of The Mine, Hath Hurtful Power O'er True Virginity.

The Strongest And The Fiercest Spirit That Fought In Heaven, Now Fiercer By Despair.

He Who Would Not Be Frustrate Of His Hope To Write Well Hereafter In Laudable Things Ought Himself To Be A True Poem.