O we are wearied of this sense of guilt, Wearied of pleasure's paramour despair, Wearied of every temple we have built, Wearied of every unanswered right, unanswered prayer,For man is weak; God sleeps: and heaven is high:One fiery-colored moment: one great love: and lo! we die.

Come down, O Christ, and help me! reach thy hand For I am drowning in a stormier sea Than Simon on thy lake of Galilee:The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,My heart is as some famine-murdered land Whence all good things have perished utterly, And well I know my soul in Hell must lieIf this night before God's throne should stand.

Most people become bankrupt through having invested too heavily in the prose of life. To have ruined one's self over poetry is an honour.

She lives in the poetry she cannot write.

We shall be notes in that great Symphony Whose cadence circles through the rhythmic spheres,And all the live World's throbbing heart shall be One with our heart, the stealthy creeping yearsHave lost their terror now, we shall not die,The Universe itself shall be our Immortality!

Your eyes are like fantastic moonsThat shiver in some stagnant lake,Your tongue is like a scarlet snakeThat dances to fantastic tunes. Your pulse makes poisonous melodies,And your black throat is like the holeLeft by some torch or burning coalOn Saracenic tapestries.

What songless, tongueless ghost of sin Crept through the curtains of the nightAnd saw my taper burning bright,And knocked and bade you enter in?

The poet is the supreme artist, for he is the master of colour and of form, and the real musician besides, and is lord over all life and all arts.

Wordsworth went to the Lakes, but he was never a lake poet. He found in stones the sermons he had already hidden there.