Thou, Silent Form, Dost Tease

You Might Curb Your Magnanimity, And Be More Of An Artist, And Load Every Rift Of Your Subject With Ore.

All Clean And Comfortable I Sit Down To Write.

Praise Or Blame Has But A Momentary Effect On The Man Whose Love Of Beauty In The Abstract Makes Him A Severe Critic On His Own Works.

Bards Of Passion And Of Mirth, Ye Have Left Your Souls On Earth! Have Ye Souls In Heaven Too, Double-lived In Regions New?

Let Us Not Go Hurrying About And Collecting Honey, Bee-like Buzzing Here And There For A Knowledge Of What Is Not To Be Arrived At, But Let Us Open Our Leaves Like A Flower, And Be Passive And Receptive, Budding Patiently Under The Eye Of Apollo, And Taking Hints From Every Noble Insect That Favours Us With A Visit - Sap Will Be Given Us For Meat And Dew For Drink.