every perfect poem. No matter what rises or is uttered, they send the seed
of the conception of it: of them and by them stand the visible proofs of
souls. If there shall be love and content between the father and the son,
and if the greatness of the son is the exuding of the greatness of the
father, there shall be love between the poet and the man of demonstrable
science. In the beauty of poems are the tuft and final applause of science.

Great is the faith of the flush of knowledge, and of the investigation of
the depths of qualities and things. Cleaving and circling here swells the
soul of the poet: yet is president of itself always. The depths are
fathomless, and therefore calm. The innocence and nakedness are resumed--
they are neither modest nor immodest. The whole theory of the special and
supernatural, and all that was twined with it or educed out of it, departs
as a dream. What has ever happened, what happens, and whatever may or shall
happen, the vital laws enclose all: they are sufficient for any case and
for all cases--none to be hurried or retarded--any miracle of affairs or
persons inadmissible in the vast clear scheme where every motion, and every
spear of grass, and the frames and spirits of men and women, and all that
concerns them, are unspeakably perfect miracles, all referring to all, and
each distinct and in its place. It is also not consistent with the reality
of the soul to admit that there is anything in the known universe more
divine than men and women.

Men and women, and the earth and all upon it, are simply to be taken as
they are, and the investigation of their past and present and future shall
be unintermitted, and shall be done with perfect candour. Upon this basis
philosophy speculates, ever looking toward the poet, ever regarding the
eternal tendencies of all toward happiness, never inconsistent with what is
clear to the senses and to the soul. For the eternal tendencies of all
toward happiness make the only point of sane philosophy. Whatever