How Hard, How Desperately Hard, Is The

Freighted With Hope, Crimsoned With Joy, We Scatter The Leaves Of Our Opening Rose.

You Are Ice And Fire The Touch Of You Burns My Hands Like Snow.

Without Poetry The Soul And Heart Of Man Starves And Dies.

Oh! To Be A Butterfly Still, Upon A Flower, Winking With Its Painted Wings, Happy In The Hour.

Poetry Is The Most Concentrated Form Of Literature; It Is The Most Emotionalized And Powerful Way In Which Thought Can Be Presented.