A Poet, As He Is The Author

There Is A Harmony In Autumn, And A Luster In Its Sky, Which Through The Summer Is Not Heard Or Seen, As If It Could Not Be, As If It Had Not Been!

Thou Shoreless Flood, Which In Thy Ebb And Flow Claspest The Limits Of Mortality.

Of Planets, Struggling Fierce Towards Heaven's Free Wilderness.

No Mistake Is More To Be Deplored Than The Conception That A System Of Morals And Religion Should Derive Any Portion Of Its Authority Either From The Circumstance Of Its Novelty Or Its Antiquity, That It Should Be Judged Excellent, Not Because It Is Reasonable Or True, But Because No Person Has Ever Thought Of It Before, Or Because It Has Been Thought Of From The Beginning Of Time.

Fear Not For The Future, Weep Not For The Past.