There Are Nettles Everywhere, But Smooth, Green

And Chaucer, With His Infantine Familiar Clasp Of Things Divine.

What Is Art But The Life Upon The Larger Scale, The Higher. When, Graduating Up In A Spiral Line Of Still Expanding And Ascending Gyres, It Pushes Toward The Intense Significance Of All Things, Hungry For The Infinite?

Anybody Is Qualified, According To Everybody, For Giving Opinions Upon Poetry. It Is Not So In Chemistry And Mathematics. Nor Is It So, I Believe, In Whist And The Polka. But Then These Are More Serious Things.

O Death, O Beyond, Thou Art Sweet, Thou Art Strange!

The Essence Of All Beauty, I Call Love.