What I Do Is Me, For That

Let Him Easter In Us, Be A Dayspring To The Dimness Of Us, Be A Crimson-cresseted East.

I Wake And Feel The Fell Of Dark, Not Day. What Hours, O What Black Hours We Have Spent This Night!

Nothing Is So Beautiful As Spring - When Weeds, In Wheels, Shoot Long And Lovely And Lush; Thrush's Eggs Look Little Low Heavens, And Thrush Through The Echoing Timber Does So Rinse And Wring The Ear, It Strikes Like Lightning To Hear Him Sing.

When I Compare Myself, My Being-myself, With Anything Else Whatever, All Things Alike, All In The Same Degree, Rebuff Me With Blank Unlikeness.

I Do Not Write For The Public. You Are My Public And I Hope To Convert You.