Fact Is Not Truth, But A Poet

Where Nature With Accustomed Round Sweeps And Garnishes The Ground With Kindly Beauty, Warm Or Cold Alternate Seasons Never Old: Heathen, How Furiously You Rage, Cursing This Blood And Brimstone Age, How Furiously Against Your Will You Kill And Kill Again, And Kill: All Thought Of Peace Behind You Cast, Till Like Small Boys With Fear Aghast, Each Cries For God To Understand, 'i Could Not Help It, It Was My Hand.

When I'm Killed, Don't Think Of Me Buried There In Cambrin Wood, Nor As In Zion Think Of Me With The Intolerable Good. And There's One Thing That I Know Well, I'm Damned If I'll Be Damned To Hell!

You Mean That People Who Continue Virtuous In An Old-fashioned Way Must Inevitably Suffer In Times Like These?

Haunted Gulp Down Your Wine, Old Friends Of Mine, Roar Through The Darkness, Stamp And Sing And Lay Ghost Hands On Everything, But Leave The Noonday's Warm Sunshine To Living Lads For Mirth And Wine. I Met You Suddenly Down The Street, Strangers Assume Your Phantom Faces, You Grin At Me From Daylight Places, Dead, Long Dead, I'm Ashamed To Greet Dead Men Down The Morning Street.

Love Is Universal Migraine, A Bright Stain On The Vision Blotting Out Reason. Symptoms Of True Love Are Leanness, Jealousy, Laggard Dawns; Are Omens And Nightmares - Listening For A Knock, Waiting For A Sign: For A Touch Of Her Fingers In A Darkened Room, For A Searching Look. Take Courage, Lover! Could You Endure Such Pain At Any Hand But Hers?