I Feel That There Is

Out Of The Ruined Lodge And Forgotten Mansion, Bowers That Are Trodden Under Foot, And Pleasure-houses That Are Dust, The Poet Calls Up A Palingenesis.

Thou Hast The Keys Of Paradise, Oh, Just, Subtle, And Mighty Opium!

I Stood Checked For A Moment - Awe, Not Fear, Fell Upon Me - And Whist I Stood, A Solemn Wind Began To Blow, The Most Mournful That Ever Ear Heard. Mournful! That Is Saying Nothing. It Was A Wind That Had Swept The Fields Of Mortality For A Hundred Centuries.

No Man Will Ever Unfold The Capacities Of His Own Intellect Who Does Not At Least Checker His Life With Solitude.

Solitude, Though It May Be Silent As Light, Is Like Light, The Mightiest Of Agencies; For Solitude Is Essential To Man. All Men Come Into This World Alone And Leave It Alone.