"By pain of heart, now checked, and now impelled, The intellectual power from words to things Went sounding on, a dim and perilous way."-WORDSWORTH. HATH this world, without me wrought, Other substance than my thought? With the selfsame forms impress? Doth yon fire-ball, poised in air, Are the clouds that wander by Do they draw their life from mine, Now I close my eyes, my ears, Hues more bright and forms more rare, Than reality doth wear, Soul! that all informest, say! Thought! that in me works and lives, Life to all things living gives, By that world thou fanciedst sprung |