And There Shall Be For Thee All

That Which Is Creative Must Create Itself.

Or Thou Might'st Better Listen To The Wind, Whose Language Is To Thee A Barren Noise, Though It Blows Legend-laden Through The Trees.

I Myself Am Pursuing The Same Instinctive Course As The Veriest Human Animal You Can Think Of I Am, However Young, Writing At Random Straining At Particles Of Light In The Midst Of A Great Darkness Without Knowing The Bearing Of Any One Assertion, Of Any One Opinion. Yet May I Not In This Be Free From Sin?

I Think I Shall Be Among The English Poets After My Death.

Was It A Vision Or A Waking Dream? Fled Is That Music--do I Wake Or Sleep?