A Woman's Always Younger Than A Man

Large, Musing Eyes, Neither Joyous Nor Sorry.

Unless You Can Muse In A Crowd All Day On The Absent Face That Fixed You; Unless You Can Love, As The Angels May, With The Breadth Of Heaven Betwixt You; Unless You Can Dream That His Faith Is Fast, Through Behoving And Unbehoving; Unless You Can Die When The Dream Is Past — Oh, Never Call It Loving!

What Is Art But The Life Upon The Larger Scale, The Higher. When, Graduating Up In A Spiral Line Of Still Expanding And Ascending Gyres, It Pushes Toward The Intense Significance Of All Things, Hungry For The Infinite?

But Since He Had The Genius To Be Loved, Why Let Him Have The Justice To Be Honoured In His Grave.

The Beautiful Seems Right By Force Of Beauty And The Feeble Wrong Because Of Weakness.