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It was Shelley, I believe, who wrote the 

 striking lines : 



Hell is a city much like London, 

 A populous and a smoky city. 



To my mind, the idea of genius has been 

 never better expressed than by Coleridge's 

 verses : 



He has fed on honey-dew, 



And drunk the milk of Paradise, 



from which we catch, by instantaneous 

 understanding, the whole secret of the 

 very miracle by which such substances as 

 make poets' visions are assimilated and 

 redistilled to the uttermost subtlety of 

 meaning. 



When old Chaucer says : 



Thann longen folk to gone on pilgrimages, 



he fixes forever one of the most delicate, 

 elusive, and universal of human moods ; it 

 is the mood of balmy spring, when the 

 far-away and the vague are calling us into 

 the purple mists just over the horizon. 

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