God Warms His Hands At Man's Heart

Life, A Beauty Chased By Tragic Laughter.

Since The Printing Press Came Into Being, Poetry Has Ceased To Be The Delight Of The Whole Community Of Man; It Has Become The Amusement And Delight Of The Few.

Men In A Ship Are Always Looking Up, And Men Ashore Are Usually Looking Down.

It's A Warm Wind, The West Wind, Full Of Birds' Cries; I Never Hear The West Wind But Tears Are In My Eyes. For It Comes From The West Lands, The Old Brown Hills, And April's In The West Wind, And Daffodils.

O Lovely Lily Clean, O Lily Springing Green, O Lily Bursting White, Dear Lily Of Delight, Spring In My Heart Agen That I May Flower To Men.