Whether we write or speak or do but look We are ever unapparent. What we are Cannot be transfused into word or book. Our soul from us is infinitely far. However much we give our thoughts the will...
If that apparent part of life's delight Our tingled flesh-sense circumscribes were seen By aught save reflex and co-carnal sight, Joy, flesh and life might prove but a gross screen....
When I do think my meanest line shall be More in Time's use than my creating whole, That future eyes more clearly shall feel me In this inked page than in my direct soul;...
I could not think of thee as piec'd rot, Yet such thou wert, for thou hadst been long dead; Yet thou liv'dst entire in my seeing thought And what thou wert in me had never fled....
Oh to be idle loving idleness! But I am idle all in hate of me; Ever in action's dream, in the false stress Of purposed action never set to be. Like a fierce beast self-penned in a bait-lair,...