Imagination Is The Air Of Mind.

The Wind Breathes Not, And The Wave Walks Softly As Above A Grave.

Burn To Be Great, Pay Not Thy Praise To Lofty Things Alone. The Plains Are Everlasting As The Hills, The Bard Cannot Have Two Pursuits; Aught Else Comes On The Mind With The Like Shock As Though Two Worlds Had Gone To War, And Met In Air.

Poets Are All Who Love, Who Feel Great Truths, And Tell Them; And The Truth Of Truths Is Love.

The Strongest Passion Which I Have Is Honor.

Corruption Springs From Light: 'tis One Same Power Creates, Preserves, Destroys; Matter Whereon It Works, On E'er Self-transmutative Form, Common To Now The Living, Now The Dead.