The Feel Of Not To

There Is A Budding Morrow In Midnight.

Deep In The Shady Sadness Of A Vale Far Sunken From The Healthy Breath Of Morn, Far From The Fiery Noon And Eve's One Star, Sat Gray-haired Saturn, Quiet As A Stone, Still As The Silence Round About His Lair.

Thou Wast Not Born For Death, Immortal Bird! No Hungry Generations Tread Thee Down; The Voice I Hear This Passing Night Was Heard In Ancient Days By Emperor And Clown.

Call The World If You Please "the Vale Of Soul-making." Then You Will Find Out The Use Of The World.

The Grandeur Of The Dooms We Have Imagined For The Mighty Dead.