All Writing Is A Form Of Prayer.

One Of The Most Mysterious Of Semi-speculations Is, One Would Suppose, That Of One Mind's Imagining Into Another

Thou Wast Not Born For Death, Immortal Bird! No Hungry Generations Tread Thee Down; The Voice I Hear This Passing Night Was Heard In Ancient Days By Emperor And Clown: Perhaps The Self-same Song That Found A Path Through The Sad Heart Of Ruth, When, Sick For Home, She Stood In Tears Amid The Alien Corn; The Same That Ofttimes Hath Charm'd Magic Casements, Opening On The Foam Of Perilous Seas, In Faery Lands Forlorn.

Soft Closer Of Our Eyes! Low Murmur Of Tender Lullabies!

O Latest Born And Loveliest Vision Far Of All Olympus' Faded Hierarchy.

Alas! When Passion Is Both Meek And Wild!