The collection of poetry

Haunts my soul forevermore!

Beauty to distortion strange;

There (I told myself) were shining

Worlds of happiness unknown

I am sick of the old conventions,

And critics who will not praise,

So sing ho for the open spaces,

And aesthetes with kindly ways.

The place where the arts all flourish,

No dream is mine, but blessed memory;

A golden moon bewitching radiance yields

I AM THE VOICE OF MOTHER EARTH,

FORM WHENCE ALL HORRORS HAVE THEIR BIRTH.”

The features of the valley’s face

Took shapes I fear’d—I knew not why.