If Something Is Not Beautiful, It Is

Thou Wast Not Born For Death, Immortal Bird! No Hungry Generations Tread Thee Down; The Voice I Hear This Passing Night Was Heard In Ancient Days By Emperor And Clown: Perhaps The Self-same Song That Found A Path Through The Sad Heart Of Ruth, When, Sick For Home, She Stood In Tears Amid The Alien Corn; The Same That Ofttimes Hath Charm'd Magic Casements, Opening On The Foam Of Perilous Seas, In Faery Lands Forlorn.

O For A Life Of Sensations Rather Than Of Thoughts!

Thou Foster-child Of Silence And Slow Time.

I Never Was In Love - Yet The Voice And The Shape Of A Woman Has Haunted Me These Two Days.

It Keeps Eternal Whisperings Around Desolate Shores