Chance Works For Us When

As We To The Brutes, Poets Are To Us.

What A Dusty Answer Gets The Soul When Hot For Certainties In This Our Life!

Lovely Are The Curves Of The White Owl Sweeping Wavy In The Dusk Lit By One Large Star. Lone On The Fir-branch, His Rattle-note Unvaried, Brooding O'er The Gloom, Spins The Brown Eve-jar.

Woman's Reason Is In The Milk Of Her Breasts.

Swift Doth Young Love Flee, And We Stand Wakened, Shivering From Our Dream.