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!