Behold Me! I Am Worthy Of Thy

God Himself Is The Best Poet, And The Real Is His Song.

You Smell A Rose Through A Fence: If Two Should Smell It, What Matter?

You May Write Twenty Lines One Day--or Even Three Like Euripides In Three Days--and A Hundred Lines In One More Day--and Yet On The Hundred, May Have Been Expended As Much Good Work, As On The Twenty And The Three.

A Grave, On Which To Rest From Singing?

When The Dust Of Death Has Choked A Great Man's Voice, The Common Words He Said Turn Oracles, The Common Thoughts He Yoked Like Horses Draw Like Griffins.