Still though the one I sing, (One, yet of contradictions made,) I dedicate to Nationality, I leave in him revolt, (O latent right of insurrection! O quenchless, indispensable fire!)
Shut not your doors to me proud libraries, For that which was lacking on all your well-fill’d shelves, yet needed most, I bring, Forth from the war emerging, a book I have made, The words of my book nothing, the drift of it everything, A book separate, not link’d with the rest nor felt by the intellect, But you ye untold latencies will thrill to every page.