Alas! When Passion Is Both Meek And

Music's Golden Tongue Flatter'd To Tears This Aged Man And Poor.

Even Bees, The Little Almsmen Of Spring Bowers, Know There Is Richest Juice In Poison-flowers.

Turn The Key Deftly In The Oiled Wards, And Seal The Hushed Casket Of My Soul.

The Roaring Of The Wind Is My Wife And The Stars Through The Window Pane Are My Children.

... Who Alive Can Say 'thou Art No Poet - Mayst Not Tell Thy Dreams'? Since Every Man Whose Soul Is Not A Clod Hath Visions, And Would Speak, If He Had Loved, And Been Well Nurtured In His Mother Tongue.