All this is one self-consistent poem, epic in intention and meaning, if not strictly so in form. - Alfred Tennyson

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves a shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
and slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip into my bosom and be lost in me.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred.

FLOWER in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, ROOT and all, in my hand,
Little flower — but if I could understand
What you are, ROOT and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.