He Who Pretends To Be

O White-robed Angel, Guide My Timorous Hand To Write As On A Lofty Rock With Iron Pen The Words Of Truth, That All Who Pass May Read.

One Power Alone Makes A Poet: Imagination. The Divine Vision.

To See A World In A Grain Of Sand And A Heaven In A Wildflower.

She Who Dwells With Me Whom I Have Loved With Such Communion, That No Place On Earth Can Ever Be Solitude To Me.

Since The French Revolution Englishmen Are All Intermeasurable One By Another, Certainly A Happy State Of Agreement To Which I Forone Do Not Agree.