As We To The Brutes, Poets Are

Not Till The Fire Is Dying In The Grate, Look We For Any Kinship With The Stars. Oh, Wisdom Never Comes When It Is Gold, And The Great Price We Paid For It Full Worth: We Have It Only When We Are Half Earth. Little Avails That Coinage To The Old!

For Singing Till His Heaven Fills, 'tis Love Of Earth That He Instills, And Ever Winging Up And Up, Our Valley Is His Golden Cup, And He The Wine Which Over Flows To Lift Us With Him As He Goes.

Not Till The Fire Is Dying In The Grate, Look We For Any Kinship With The Stars.

That Rarest Gift To Beauty, Common Sense!

The Man Or Country That Fights Priestcraft And Priests Is To My Mind Striking Deeper For Freedom Than Can Be Struck Anywhere.