I Made No More Protests. What Was

I Do Not Love The Sabbath, The Soapsuds And The Starch, The Troops Of Solemn People Who To Salvation March. I Take My Book, I Take My Stick On The Sabbath Day, In Woody Nooks And Valleys I Hide Myself Away. To Ponder There In Quiet God's Universal Plan, Resolved That Church And Sabbath Were Never Made For Man.

Truth-loving Persians Do Not Dwell Upon The Trivial Skirmish Fought Near Marathon.

Poet, Never Chase The Dream. Laugh Yourself And Turn Away. Mask Your Hunger, Let It Seem Small Matter If He Come Or Stay; But When He Nestles In Your Hand At Last, Close Up Your Fingers Tight And Hold Him Fast.

Fact Is Not Truth, But A Poet Who Wilfully Defies Fact Cannot Achieve Truth.

The Sap Of Spring In The Young Wood A-stir Will Celebrate With Green The Mother, And Every Song-bird Shout Awhile For Her; But We Are Gifted, Even In November Rawest Of Seasons, With So Huge A Sense Of Her Nakedly Worn Magnificence We Forget Cruelty And Past Betrayal, Heedless Of Where The Next Bright Bolt May Fall.