Heard Melodies Are Sweet, But Those Unheard

I Am In That Temper That If I Were Under Water I Would Scarcely Kick To Come To The Top.

My Love Is Selfish. I Cannot Breathe Without You.

There Is Not A Fiercer Hell Than The Failure In A Great Object.

How Does The Poet Speak To Men With Power, But By Being Still More A Man Than They

Ghosts Of Melodious Prophesyings Rave Round Every Spot Where Trod Apollo's Foot; Bronze Clarions Awake, And Faintly Bruit, Where Long Ago A Giant Battle Was; And, From The Turf, A Lullaby Doth Pass In Every Place Where Infant Orpheus Slept. Feel We These Things? - That Moment Have We Stept Into A Sort Of Oneness, And Our State Is Like A Floating Spirit's. But There Are Richer Entanglements, Enthralments Far More Self-destroying, Leading, By Degrees, To The Chief Intensity: The Crown Of These Is Made Of Love And Friendship, And Sits High Upon The Forehead Of Humanity.