I've Tried It Long Ago,

The Wind Shrieks, The Wind Grieves; It Dashes The Leaves On Walls, It Whirls Then Again; And The Enormous Sleeper Vaguely And Stupidly Dreams And Desires To Stir, To Resist A Ghost Of Pain.

I Began By Doing Book Reviews On The Typewriter And Then Went Over To Short Stories On The Machine, Meanwhile Sticking To Pencil For Poetry.

One Cricket Said To Another - Come, Let Us Be Ridiculous, And Say Love! Love Love Love Love Love Let Us Be Absurd, Woman, And Say Hate! Hate Hate Hate Hate Hate And Then Let Us Be Angelic And Say Nothing.

As Poetry Is The Highest Speech Of Man, It Can Not Only Accept And Contain, But In The End Express Best Everything In The World, Or In Himself, That He Discovers. It Will Absorb And Transmute, As It Always Has Done, And Glorify, All That We Can Know. This Has Always Been, And Always Will Be, Poetry's Office.

All That Is Beautiful, And All That Looks On Beauty With Eyes Filled With Fire, Like A Lover's Eyes: All Of This Is Yours; You Gave It To Me, Sunlight! All These Stars Are Yours; You Gave Them To Me, Skies!