His love at once and dread instruct our thought; As man He suffer’d and as God He taught.
In life, there are no perfect affections.
A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that ‘s good, and all that ‘s fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.
All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
Gradually I find that my whole soul is merging itself into this business of writing, and especially of writing poetry. I am going to try it; and am going to test, in the most rigid way I know, the awful question whether it is my vocation.
The fear of hell, or aiming to be blest, savors too much of private interest.
The mystic purchases a moment of exhilaration with a lifetime of confusion; and the confusion is infectious and destructive. It is confusing and destructive to try and explain anything in terms of anything else, poetry in terms of psychology.
And, as I have said, it’s made me think twice about the imagination. If the spirits aren’t external, how astonishing the mediums become! Victor Hugo said of his voices that they were like his own mental powers multiplied by five.
Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.