Do You Know, A Horrible Thing Has

No Wonder Of It: Sheer Plod Makes Plough Down Sillion Shine, And Blue-bleak Embers, Ah My Dear, Fall, Gall Themselves, And Gash Gold-vermilion.

Let Him Easter In Us, Be A Dayspring To The Dimness Of Us, Be A Crimson-cresseted East.

But . . . I May As Well Say What I Should Not Otherwise Have Said, That I Always Knew In My Heart Walt Whitman’s Mind To Be More Like My Own Than Any Other Man’s Living. As He Is A Very Great Scoundrel This Is Not A Pleasant Confession.

It Seems Then That It Is Not The Excellence Of Any Two Things (or More) In Themselves, But Those Two Things As Viewed By The Light Of Each Other, That Makes Beauty.

Life Death All Does End And Each Day Dies With Sleep.