The True Poem Is The Poet's Mind.

Spirit, That Made Those Heroes Dare To Die, And Leave Their Children Free, Bid Time And Nature Gently Spare The Shaft We Raise To Them And Thee.

Intellect Is A Fire; Rash And Pitiless It Melts This Wonderful Bone-house Which Is Called Man. Genius Even, As It Is The Greatestgood, Is The Greatest Harm.

To The Birds And Trees He Talks: Caesar Of His Leafy Rome, There The Poet Is At Home.

A Man Is A Method, A Progressive Arrangement; A Selecting Principle, Gathering His Like To Him; Wherever He Goes.

It Is In Bad Taste," Is The Most Formidable Word An Englishman Can Pronounce.