This Sort Of Adoration Of The Real

I Cannot Conceive Why People Will Always Mix Up My Own Character And Opinions With Those Of The Imaginary Beings Which, As A Poet, I Have The Right And Liberty To Draw.

Oh, Talk Not To Me Of A Name Great In Story; The Days Of Our Youth Are The Days Of Our Glory; And The Myrtle And Ivy Of Sweet Two-and-twenty Are Worth All Your Laurels, Though Ever So Plenty.

Roll On, Thou Deep And Dark Blue Ocean

Ye Stars! Which Are The Poetry Of Heaven!

Which Cheers The Sad, Revives The Old, Inspires The Young, Makes Weariness Forget His Toil, And Fear Her Danger; Opens A New World When This, The Present, Palls.