My Eyes Make Pictures When They Are

But Oh! Each Visitation Suspends What Nature Gave Me Any My Birth, My Shaping Spirit Of Imagination.

How Strange And Awful Is The Synthesis Of Life And Death In The Gusty Winds And Falling Leaves Of An Autumnal Day!

It Has Been Observed Before That Images, However Beautiful, Though Faithfully Copied From Nature, And As Accurately Represented In Words, Do Not Of Themselves Characterize The Poet. They Become Proofs Of Original Genius Only As Far As They Are Modified By A Predominant Passion; Or By Associated Thoughts Or Images Awakened By That Passion; Or When They Have The Effect Of Reducing Multitude To Unity, Or Succession To An Instant; Or Lastly, When A Human And Intellectual Life Is Transferred To Them From The Poet's Spirit.

All Thoughts, All Passions, All Delights Whatever Stirs This Mortal Frame All Are But Ministers Of Love And Feed His Sacred Flame.

To Most Men Experience Is Like The Stern Lights Of A Ship, Which Illuminate Only The Track It Has Passed.