I Shall Attack Chemistry, Like A Shark.

The Poet, Described In Ideal Perfection, Brings The Whole Soul Of Man Into Activity, With The Subordination Of Its Faculties To Each Other According To Their Relative Worth And Dignity. He Diffuses A Tone And Spirit Of Unity, That Blends, And (as It Were) Fuses , Each Into Each, By That Synthetic And Magical Power, To Which I Would Exclusively Appropriate The Name Of Imagination.

The Moving Moon Went Up The Sky, And Nowhere Did Abide: Softly She Was Going Up, And A Star Or Two Beside.

The Primary Imagination I Hold To Be The Living Power And Prime Agent Of All Human Perception, And As A Repetition In The Finite Mind Of The Eternal Act Of Creation In The Infinite I Am.

Every Reform, However Necessary, Will By Weak Minds Be Carried To An Excess, That Itself Will Need Reforming.

What Is An Epigram? A Dwarfish Whole, Its Body Brevity, And Wit Its Soul.