For Frequent Tears Have Run; The Colours

Folded Eyes See Brighter Colors Than The Open Ever Do.

Art Is Much, But Love Is More.

The Large White Owl That With Eye Is Blind, That Hath Sate For Years In The Old Tree Hollow, Is Carried Away In A Gust Of Wind.

And Chaucer, With His Infantine Familiar Clasp Of Things Divine.

The World's Male Chivalry Has Perished Out, But Women Are Knights-errant To The Last; And, If Cervantes Had Been Greater Still, He Had Made His Don A Donna.