Of What I Call God, And Fools

I, Painting From Myself And To Myself, Know What I Do, Am Unmoved By Men's Blame Or Their Praise Either.

Mid The Sharp, Short Emerald Wheat, Scarce Risen Three Fingers Well, The Wild Tulip At The End Of Its Tube, Blows Out Its Great Red Bell, Like A Thin Clear Bubble Of Blood, For The Children To Pick And Sell.

Dear, Dead Women, With Such Hair, Too--what's Become Of All The Gold Used To Hang And Brush Their Bosoms?

I Write From A Thorough Conviction That It Is The Duty Of Me, And With The Belief That, After Every Drawback And Shortcoming, I Do My Best, All Things Considered--that Is For Me, And, So Being, The Not Being Listened To By One Human Creature Would, I Hope, In Nowise Affect Me.

God Is The Perfect Poet.