Clay Lies Still, But Blood's A Rover;

There, By The Starlit Fences The Wanderer Halts And Hears My Soul That Lingers Sighing About The Glimmering Weirs.

The House Of Delusions Is Cheap To Build But Drafty To Live In.

The Rainy Pleiads Wester Orion Plunges Prone, And Midnight Strikes And Hastens, And I Lie Down Alone.

And Silence Sounds No Worse Than Cheers After Earth Has Stopped The Ears.

Poems Very Seldom Consist Of Poetry And Nothing Else; And Pleasure Can Be Derived Also From Their Other Ingredients. I Am Convinced That Most Readers, When They Think They Are Admiring Poetry, Are Deceived By Inability To Analyse Their Sensations, And That They Are Really Admiring, Not The Poetry Of The Passage Before Them, But Something Else In It, Which They Like Better Than Poetry.