The Mortal Sickness Of A Mind Too

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.

A Moment's Thought Would Have Shown Him. But A Moment Is A Long Time, And Thought Is A Painful Process.

June Suns, You Cannot Store Them To Warm The Winter's Cold, The Lad That Hopes For Heaven Shall Fill His Mouth With Mould.

And How Am I To Face The Odds Of Man's Bedevilment And God's? I, A Stranger And Afraid In A World I Never Made.

Strapped, Noosed, Nighing His Hour, He Stood And Counted Them And Cursed His Luck; And Then The Clock Collected In The Tower Its Strength, And Struck.