O World, I wish there was room for a poet. In the time of David and of Isaiah, in the time of John and of Homer, there was room for a poet. In the time of Hyvernion and of Herve and of Omar Khayyam: in the time of Shakspere, was room in the world for a poet.
In the time of Keats there was not room:
Perhaps now there is not room.
[1881]
In the lily, the sunset, the mountain, the rosy hues of all life, it is easy to trace God. But it is in the dust that goes up from the unending Battle of Things that we lose Him. Forever thro' the ferocities of storms, the malice of the never-glutted oceans, the savagery of human wars, the inexorable barbarities of accident, of earthquake and mysterious Disease, one hears the voice of man crying, where art thou, my dear Lord and Master?
But oh, how can ye trifle away your time at trades and waste yourself in men's commerce, when ye might be here in the woods at commerce with great angels, all heaven at purchase for a song.
I will be the Terpander of sadness;
I will string the shell of slow time for a lyre,
The shell of Tortoise-creeping time,
Till grief grow music.