One Thing Only Has Been Lent To

Coleridge: Poet And Philosopher Wrecked In A Mist Of Opium.

Use Your Gifts Faithfully, And They Shall Be Enlarged; Practice What You Know, And You Shall Attain To Higher Knowledge.

Thou Waitest For The Spark From Heaven! And We, Light Half-believers Of Our Casual Creeds, Who Never Deeply Felt, Nor Clearly Will'd, Whose Insight Never Has Borne Fruit In Deeds, Whose Vague Resolves Never Have Been Fulfill'd; For Whom Each Year We See Breeds New Beginnings, Disappointments New; Who Hesitate And Falter Life Away, And Lose To-morrow The Ground Won To-day Ah! Do Not We, Wanderer! Await It Too?

I Am A Liberal, Yet I Am A Liberal Tempered By Experience, Reflexion, And Renouncement, And I Am, Above All, A Believer In Culture.

The Sea Of Faith Was Once, Too, At The Full, And Round Earth's Shore Lay Like The Folds Of A Bright Girdle Furled. But Now I Only Hear Its Melancholy, Long, Withdrawing Roar, Retreating, To The Breath Of The Night-wind, Down The Vast Edges Drear And Naked Shingles Of The World.