The Poetry Of The Earth Is Never

Was It A Vision Or A Waking Dream? Fled Is That Music--do I Wake Or Sleep?

You Have Absorb'd Me. I Have A Sensation At The Present Moment As Though I Was Dissolving.

To Feel Forever Its Soft Fall And Swell, Awake For Ever In A Sweet Unrest, Still, Still To Hear Her Tender-taken Breath, And So Live Ever-or Else Swoon In Death.

The Only Means Of Strengthening One's Intellect Is To Make Up One's Mind About Nothing, To Let The Mind Be A Thoroughfare For All Thoughts.

Literary Men Are . . . A Perpetual Priesthood.