But Since He Had The Genius To

Oh, The Little Birds Sang East, And The Little Birds Sang West.

I Have Done Most Of My Talking By Post Of Late Years--as People Shut Up In Dungeons Take Up With Scrawling Mottoes On The Walls.

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!

And Lips Say “god Be Pitiful,” Who Ne'er Said “god Be Praised.”

And Lilies Are Still Lilies, Pulled By Smutty Hands, Though Spotted From Their White.