And May We Find When Ended Is

On The Long Dusty Ribbon Of The Long City Street, The Pageant Of Life Is Passing Me On Multitudinous Feet, With A Word Here Of The Hills, And A Song There Of The Sea And-the Great Movement Changes-the Pageant Passes Me.

My Road Leads Me Seawards To The White Dipping Sails.

Since The Printing Press Came Into Being, Poetry Has Ceased To Be The Delight Of The Whole Community Of Man; It Has Become The Amusement And Delight Of The Few.

Each One Could Be A Jesus Mild, Each One Has Been A Little Child, A Little Child With Laughing Look, A Lovely White Unwritten Book; A Book That God Will Take, My Friend, As Each Goes Out At Journey's End.

Poetry Is A Mixture Of Common Sense, Which Not All Have, With An Uncommon Sense, Which Very Few Have.