Being A Poet Is One Of The

What The Man-moth Fears Most He Must Do.

Oh, Must We Dream Our Dreams And Have Them, Too?

What One Seems To Want In Art, In Experiencing It, Is The Same Thing That Is Necessary For Its Creation, A Self-forgetful, Perfectly Useless Concentration.

I Am In Need Of Music That Would Flow Over My Fretful, Feeling Finger-tips, Over My Bitter-tainted, Trembling Lips, With Melody, Deep, Clear, And Liquid-slow. Oh, For The Healing Swaying, Old And Low, Of Some Song Sung To Rest The Tired Dead, A Song To Fall Like Water On My Head, And Over Quivering Limbs, Dream Flushed To Glow! There Is A Magic Made By Melody: A Spell Of Rest, And Quiet Breath, And Cool Heart, That Sinks Through Fading Colors Deep To The Subaqueous Stillness Of The Sea, And Floats Forever In A Moon-green Pool, Held In The Arms Of Rhythm And Of Sleep.

Lose Something Every Day. Accept The Fluster Of Lost Door Keys, The Hour Badly Spent. The Art Of Losing Isn't Hard To Master.