He Who Wants, But Doesn't Act, Is

The World Of Imagination Is The World Of Eternity. It Is The Divine Bosom Into Which We Shall All Go After The Death Of The Vegetated [i.e. Mortal] Body. This World Of Imagination Is Infinite And Eternal, Whereas The World Of Generation Is Finite And Temporal. There Exist In That Eternal World The Eternal Realities Of Everything Which We See Reflected In This Vegetable Glass Of Nature.

Each Man Is Haunted Until His Humanity Awakens.

O Winter! Bar Thine Adamantine Doors: The North Is Thine; There Hast Thou Build Thy Dark, Deep-founded Habitation. Shake Not Thy Roofs, Nor Bend Thy Pillars With Thine Iron Car.

Execution Is The Chariot Of Genius.

I Wander Thro' Each Charter'd Street, Near Where The Charter'd Thames Does Flow, And Mark In Every Face I Meet Marks Of Weakness, Marks Of Woe. In Every Cry Of Every Man, In Every Infant's Cry Of Fear, In Every Voice, In Every Ban, The Mind-forg'd Manacles I Hear. How The Chimney-sweeper's Cry Every Black'ning Church Appalls; And The Hapless Soldier's Sigh Runs In Blood Down Palace Walls. But Most Thro' Midnight Streets I Hear How The Youthful Harlot's Curse Blasts The New Born Infant's Tear, And Blights With Plagues The Marriage Hearse.