Dancing Music, Music Sad, Both Together, Sane

... The Open Sky Sits Upon Our Senses Like A Sapphire Crown - The Air Is Our Robe Of State - The Earth Is Our Throne, And The Sea A Mighty Minstrel Playing Before It.

Much Have I Traveled In The Realms Of Gold, And Many Goodly States And Kingdoms Seen.

To Feel Forever Its Soft Fall And Swell, Awake For Ever In A Sweet Unrest, Still, Still To Hear Her Tender-taken Breath, And So Live Ever-or Else Swoon In Death.

Is There Another Life? Shall I Awake And Find All This A Dream? There Must Be We Cannot Be Created For This Sort Of Suffering.

If Poetry Does Not Come As Naturally As Leaves To A Tree, Then It Better Not Come At All.