What I Do Is Me, For That

Spring And Fall: To A Young Child Márgarét, Are You Gríeving Over Goldengrove Unleaving? Leáves, Líke The Things Of Man, You With Your Fresh Thoughts Care For, Can You? Ah! ás The Heart Grows Older It Will Come To Such Sights Colder By And By, Nor Spare A Sigh Though Worlds Of Wanwood Leafmeal Lie; And Yet You Wíll Weep And Know Why. Now No Matter, Child, The Name: Sórrow's Spríngs áre The Same. Nor Mouth Had, No Nor Mind, Expressed What Heart Heard Of, Ghost Guessed: It ís The Blight Man Was Born For, It Is Margaret You Mourn For.

For I Think It Is The Case With Genius That It Is Not When Quiescent So Very Much Above Mediocrity As The Difference Between The Two Might Lead Us To Think, But That It Has The Power And Privilege Of Rising From That Level To A Height Utterly Far From Mediocrity: In Other Words That Its Greatness Is That It Can Be So Great.

For Human Nature, Being More Highly Pitched, Selved, And Distinctive Than Anything In The World, Can Have Been Developed, Evolved,condensed, From The Vastness Of The World Not Anyhow Or By The Working Of Common Powers But Only By One Of Finer Or Higher Pitch And Determination Than Itself.

Beauty Is A Relation, And The Apprehension Of It A Comparison.

The Indian Gods Are Imposing, The Greek Gods Are Not. Indeed They Are Not Brave, Not Self-controlled, They Have No Manners, They Are Not Gentlemen And Ladies.