It Kills Me To Be Time's Eunuch

It Is A Happy Thing That There Is No Royal Road To Poetry. The World Should Know By This Time That One Cannot Reach Parnassus Except By Flying Thither.

Any Day, Any Minute We Bless God For Our Being Or For Anything, For Food, For Sunlight, We Do And Are What We Were Meant For, Madefor--things That Give And Mean To Give God Glory.

Summer Ends Now; Now, Barbarous In Beauty, The Stooks Arise Around; Up Above, What Wind-walks! What Lovely Behavior Of Silk-sack Clouds! Has Wilder, Willful-waiver Meal-drift Molded Ever And Melted Across Skies?

I Am All At Once What Christ Is, ' Since He Was What I Am, And This Jack, Joke, Poor Potsherd, ' Patch, Matchwood, Immortal Diamond, Is Immortal Diamond.

I Am Surprised You Shd. Say Fancy And Aesthetic Tastes Have Led Me To My Present State Of Mind: These Wd. Be Better Satisfied In The Church Of England, For Bad Taste Is Always Meeting One In The Accessories Of Catholicism.