Their Woes Gone By, And Both To

My Imagination Is A Monastery And I Am Its Monk.

Load Every Rift With Ore.

Deep In The Shady Sadness Of A Vale Far Sunken From The Healthy Breath Of Morn, Far From The Fiery Noon And Eve's One Star, Sat Gray-haired Saturn, Quiet As A Stone, Still As The Silence Round About His Lair.

The Redbreast Whistles From A Garden-croft; And Gathering Swallows Twitter In The Skies.

That Which Is Creative Must Create Itself.