As We To The Brutes,

Cultivated Men And Women Who Do Not Skim The Cream Of Life, And Are Attached To The Duties, Yet Escape The Harsher Blows, Make Acute And Balanced Observers.

Earth, The Mother Of All, Moves On Her Stedfast Way, Gathering, Flinging, Sowing. Mortals, We Live In Her Day, She In Her Children Is Growing.

I Know Him, February's Thrush, And Loud At Eve He Valentines On Sprays That Paw The Naked Bush Where Soon Will Sprout The Thorns And Bines.

George Eliot Has The Heart Of Sappho; But The Face, With The Long Proboscis, The Protruding Teeth Of The Apocalyptic Horse, Betrayed Animality.

Sentimentalists Are They Who Seek To Enjoy Without Incurring The Immense Debtorship For A Thing Done.