Glory Be To God For Dappled Things.

Look At The Stars! Look, Look Up At The Skies! Oh Look At All The Fire-folk Sitting In The Air! The Bright Boroughs, The Circle-citadels There!

And Though We Do Have Him Before Our Eyes, Masked In The Sacred Host, At Mass And Benediction And Within Our Lips Receive Him At Communion, Yet To Hear Of Him And Dwell On The Thought Of Him Will Do Us Good.

All Things Therefore Are Charged With Love, Are Charged With God And If We Knew How To Touch Them Give Off Sparks And Take Fire, Yield Drops And Flow, Ring And Tell Of Him.

Birds Buildbut Not I Build; No, But Strain, Time's Eunuch, And Not Breed One Work That Wakes. Mine,o Thou Lord Of Life, Send My Roots Rain.

But . . . I May As Well Say What I Should Not Otherwise Have Said, That I Always Knew In My Heart Walt Whitman’s Mind To Be More Like My Own Than Any Other Man’s Living. As He Is A Very Great Scoundrel This Is Not A Pleasant Confession.