For 'tis Not In Mere Death That

For Poets (bear The Word) Half-poets Even, Are Still Whole Democrats.

Of Writing Many Books There Is No End.

The Plague Of Gold Strikes Far And Near.

Sing, Seraph With The Glory! Heaven Is High. Sing, Poet With The Sorrow! Earth Is Low. The Universe's Inward Voices Cry "amen" To Either Song Of Joy And Woe. Sing, Seraph, Poet! Sing On Equally!

For None Can Express Thee, Though All Should Approve Thee. I Love Thee So, Dear, That I Only Can Love Thee.