The Hands Are The Heart's

What Is Our Innocence, What Is Our Guilt? All Are Naked, None Is Safe.

They Fought The Enemy, We Fight Fat Living And Self-pity. Shine, O Shine, Unfalsifying Sun, On This Sick Scene.

In A Poem The Words Should Be As Pleasing To The Ear As The Meaning Is To The Mind.

The Mind Is An Enchanting Thing Is An Enchanted Thing, Like The Glaze On A Katydid-wing Subdivided By Sun Till The Nettings Are Legion.

My Father Used To Say, "superior People Never Make Long Visits, Have To Be Shown Longfellows Grave, Or The Glass Flowers At Harvard."