A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence; because he…

It keeps eternal whisperings around Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell Gluts twice ten thousand Caverns, till the spell Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.

But were there ever any Writh'd not of passed joy? The feel of not to feel it, When there is none to heal it, Nor numbed sense to steel it, Was never said in rhyme.

In drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.

Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.

My spirit is too weak — mortality Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, And each imagin'd pinnacle and steep Of godlike hardship tells me I must die Like a sick Eagle looking at the sky.

then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.