In one, with a mystical title, which I cannot recall, I read of a
world that is not like ours. The wondrous account, in such a feeble,
fragmentary way as is possible to me, I would willingly impart. Whether
or not it was all a poem, I cannot tell; but, from the impulse I felt,
when I first contemplated writing it, to break into rime, to which
impulse I shall give way if it comes upon me again, I think it must have
been, partly at least, in verse.