Sorrows Must Die With The Joys They

The Empire Of Saturnus Is Gone By; Lord Of The Secret Birth Of Things Is He; Within The Lap Of Earth, And In The Depths Of The Imagination Dominates; And His Are All Things That Eschew The Light. The Time Is O'er Of Brooding And Contrivance, For Jupiter, The Lustrous, Lordeth Now, And The Dark Work, Complete Of Preparation, He Draws By Force Into The Realm Of Light. Now Must We Hasten On To Action, Ere The Scheme, And Most Auspicious Positure Parts O'er My Head, And Takes Once More Its Flight, For The Heavens Journey Still, And Adjourn Not.

I Speak With The Eternal Through The Instrument Of Nature, Through The World's History: I Read The Soul Of The Artist In His Apollo.

Rigor Pushed Too Far Is Sure To Miss Its Aim, However Good, As The Bow Snaps That Is Bent Too Stiffly.

Each State Of The Human Mind Has Some Parable In The Physical Creation By Which It Is Shadowed Forth; Nor Is It Only Artists And Poets, But Even The Most Abstract Thinkers That Have Drawn From This Source. Lively Activity We Name Fire; Time Is A Stream That Rolls On, Sweeping All Before It; Eternity Is A Circle; A Mystery Is Hid In Midnight Gloom, And Truth Dwells In The Sun. Nay, I Begin To Believe That Even The Future Destiny Of The Human Race Is Prefigured In The Dark Oracular Utterances Of Bodily Creation.

Anyone Taken As An Individual Is Tolerably Sensible And Reasonable - As A Member Of A Crowd, He At Once Becomes A Blockhead.