Here once soared Somerset, arc to shining arc,
With no let, or hindrance.
‘You are standing on the bed of an underground river’
That hole in our lives opens out, what was intimate to rock,
secret, lies naked to sun’s gaze:
sixty feet under, I hear skylarks
"Never forget what I believe was observed to you by Coleridge, that every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great or original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished."