As We To The Brutes, Poets Are

Lowly, With A Broken Neck, The Crocus Lays Her Cheek To Mire.

A Witty Woman Is A Treasure; A Witty Beauty Is A Power.

Ah, What A Dusty Answer Gets The Soul When Hot For Certainties In This Our Life! - In Tragic Hints Here See What Evermore Moves Dark As Yonder Midnight Ocean's Force, Thundering Like Ramping Hosts Of Warrior Horse, To Throw That Faint Thin Fine Upon The Shore!

Lovely Are The Curves Of The White Owl Sweeping Wavy In The Dusk Lit By One Large Star. Lone On The Fir-branch, His Rattle-note Unvaried, Brooding O'er The Gloom, Spins The Brown Eve-jar.

A Woman Who Is Not Quite A Fool Will Forgive Your Being But A Man, If You Are Surely That. . .