Impressions vast and vague flow in...

Impressions vast and vague flow in . . . . . . . . . From Somewhat that to me is kin. Shall I assemble them all careless In the mind's garret or waste dust-bin?

Nay. In solution in the soul's Own hot equators, frosty poles, I'll more and more their import cherish, Their deeps on deeps to my shelving shoals.

O heart, with tentacles in sea, Like oral-disked anemone, Taste thou the wine of shoreless oceans, And feed on food that was meant for thee!