The Bright Incarnate Spirit Of

He Is Dead Already Who Doth Not Feel Life Is Worth Living Still.

A Garden That One Makes Oneself Becomes Associated With One’s Personal History And That Of One’s Friends, Interwoven With One’s Tastes, Preferences And Character And Constitutes A Sort Of Unwritten Autobiography.

Imagination In Poetry, As Distinguished From Mere Fancy Is The Transfiguring Of The Real Or Actual To The Ideal.

Through The Dripping Weeks That Follow One Another Slow, And Soak Summer's Extinguished Fire And Autumn's Drifting Smoke.

Where Has Thou Been All The Dumb Winter Days When Neither Sunlight Was Nor Smile Of Flowers, Neither Life, Nor Love, Nor Frolic, Only Expanse Melancholic, With Never A Note Of Thy Exhilarating Lays?