Love Is A Flame To

Since The Printing Press Came Into Being, Poetry Has Ceased To Be The Delight Of The Whole Community Of Man; It Has Become The Amusement And Delight Of The Few.

God Dropped A Spark Down Into Everyone, And If We Find And Fan It To A Blaze, It'll Spring Up And Glow, Like--like The Sun, And Light The Wandering Out Of Stony Ways.

The Social States Of Human Kinds Are Made By Multitudes Of Minds, And After Multitudes Of Years A Little Human Growth Appears Worth Having, Even To The Soul Who Sees Most Plain It's Not The Whole.

What Am I, Life? A Thing Of Watery Salt Held In Cohesion By Unresting Cells, Which Work They Know Not Why, Which Never Halt, Myself Unwitting Where Their Master Dwells?

I Must Go Down To The Sea Again, To The Lonely Sea And The Sky; And All I Ask Is A Tall Ship And A Star To Steer Her By.