The Poet Is The Man Made To

Ah! From The Soul Itself Must Issue Forth A Light, A Glory, A Fair Luminous Cloud Enveloping The Earth And From The Soul Itself Must There Be Sent A Sweet And Potent Voice, Of Its Own Birth Of All Sweet Sounds The Life And Element!

Where Virtue Is, Sensibility Is The Ornament And Becoming Attire Of Virtue. On Certain Occasions It May Almost Be Said To Become Virtue. But Sensibility And All The Amiable Qualities May Likewise Become, And Too Often Have Become, The Panders Of Vice And The Instruments Of Seduction.

That Saints Will Aid If Men Will Call; For The Blue Sky Bends Over All!

A Mother Is A Mother Still, The Holiest Thing Alive.

Alone, Alone, All, All Alone, Alone On A Wide Wide Sea! And Never Saint Took Pity On My Soul In Agony