I, Who Thought To Sink, Was Caught

Why, What Is To Live? Not To Eat And Drink And Breathe,—but To Feel The Life In You Down All The Fibres Of Being, Passionately And Joyfully.

The Denial Of Contemporary Genius Is The Rule Rather Than The Exception. No One Counts The Eagles In The Nest, Till There Is A Rush Of Wings; And Lo! They Are Flown.

I Tell You, Hopeless Grief Is Passionless; That Only Men Incredulous Of Despair, Half-taught In Anguish, Through The Midnight Air Beat Upward To God's Throne In Loud Access Of Shrieking And Reproach

That Headlong Ivy! Not A Leaf Will Grow But Thinking Of A Wreath, . . . I Like Such Ivy; Bold To Leap A Height 'twas Strong To Climb! As Good To Grow On Graves As Twist About A Thyrsus; Pretty Too (and That's Not Ill) When Twisted Round A Comb.

Gaze Up At The Stars Knowing That I See The Same Sky And Wish The Same Sweet Dreams.