Things Have A Terrible Permanence

For Nothing Keeps A Poet In His High Singing Mood Like Unappeasable Hunger For Unattainable Food.

There Is No Peace To Be Taken With Poets Who Are Young, For They Worry About The Wars To Be Fought And The Songs That Must Be Sung.

It Is Stern Work, It Is Perilous Work, To Thrust Your Hand In The Sun And Pull Out A Spark Of Immortal Flame To Warm The Hearts Of Men: But Prometheus, Torn By The Claws And Beaks Whose Task Is Never Done, Would Be Tortured Another Eternity To Go Stealing Fire Again.

I Suppose I Passed It A Hundred Times, But I Always Stop For A Minute. And Look At The House, The Tragic House, The House With Nobody In It.

The Fairy Poet Takes A Sheet Of Moonbeam, Silver White; His Ink Is Dew From Daisies Sweet, His Pen A Point Of Light.