In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heav’nly-pensive contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing melancholy reigns:

Is it better to have a mind or a muscular middle? Is he worth more if he shines in a picture or in a poem? And where do I derive value? Does it matter if we’re all matter? (If only I could whistle…)

Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey’d virgins keep,
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!
Though cold like you, unmov’d, and silent grown,
I have not yet forgot myself to stone.