My! Ain't Men Blinder'n Moles?

I Never Deny Poems When They Come; Whatever I Am Doing, Whatever I Am Writing, I Lay It Aside And Attend To The Arriving Poem.

I Must Be Mad, Or Very Tired, When The Curve Of A Blue Bay Beyond A Railroad Track Is Shrill And Sweet To Me Like The Sudden Springing Of A Tune, And The Sight Of A White Church Above Thin Trees In A City Square Amazes My Eyes As Though It Were The Parthenon.

On The Neck Of The Young Man Sparkles No Gem So Gracious As Enterprise. Youth Condemns; Maturity Condones.

How Much More Beautiful Is The Moon, Slanting Down The Gauffered Branches Of A Plum-tree; The Moon Wavering Across A Bed Of Tulips; The Moon, Still, Upon Your Face. You Shine, Beloved, You And The Moon. But Which Is The Reflection?

If What We Worship Fail Us, Still The Fire Burns On, And It Is Much To Have Believed.