When there is no longer even a vague idea of purposes or presences, then the many colored forest really is rag-bag and all the pageant of the dust only a dustbin. We can see this realization creeping like a slow paralysis over all those of the newest poets who have not reacted towards religion. Their philosophy of the dandelion is not that all weeds are flowers, but rather that all flowers are weeds. Indeed it reaches to something like a nightmare; as if Nature itself were unnatural. Perhaps that is why so many of them try desperately to write about machinery; touching which nobody has yet disputed the Argument from Design.
– Autobiography, chapter XVI