Genius Is The Power Of

And In Life's Noisiest Hour, There Whispers Still The Ceaseless Love Of Thee, The Heart's Self-solace And Soliloquy. You Mould My Hopes, You Fashion Me Within.

That Gracious Thing, Made Up Of Tears And Light.

The Intelligible Forms Of Ancient Poets, The Fair Humanities Of Old Religion, The Power, The Beauty, And The Majesty That Had Their Haunts In Dale Or Piny Mountain, Or Forest By Slow Stream, Or Pebbly Spring, Or Chasms And Watery Depths, All These Have Vanished; They Live No Longer In The Faith Of Reason.

I Have Heard Of Reasons Manifold Why Love Must Needs Be Blind, But This The Best Of All I Hold,- His Eyes Are In His Mind.

To Leave No Interval Between The Sentence And The Fulfillment Of It Doth Beseem God Only, The Immutable!