A Poet Must Need Be

The Quiet Tenderness Of Chaucer, Where You Almost Seem To Hear The Hot Tears Falling, And The Simple Choking Words Sobbed Out.

Fools, When Their Roof-tree Falls, Think It Doomsday.

Worshippers Of Light Ancestral Make The Present Light A Crime.

But Better Far It Is To Speak One Simple Word, Which Now And Then Shall Waken Their Free Nature In The Weak And Friendless Sons Of Men.

Borrowed Garments Never Keep One Warm.