To Stand Against The Deep

I Can Again Thy Former Light Restore, Should I Repent Me: But Once Put Out Thy Light, Thou Cunning'st Pattern Of Excelling Nature, I Know Not Where Is That Promethean Heat That Can Thy Light Relume.

A Heavier Task Could Not Have Been Impos'd, Than I To Speak My Griefs Unspeakable.

The Poet's Eye, In A Fine Frenzy Rolling, Doth Glance From Heaven To Earth, From Earth To Heaven; And As Imagination Bodies Forth The Forms Of Things Unknown, The Poet's Pen Turns Them To Shape, And Gives To Airy Nothing A Local Habitation And A Name; Such Tricks Hath Strong Imagination.

O! For A Muse Of Fire, That Would Ascend The Brightest Heaven Of Invention.

Listen To Many, Speak To A Few.