Life Death All Does End And Each

What I Do Is Me, For That I Came.

Every True Poet, I Thought, Must Be Original And Originality A Condition Of Poetic Genius; So That Each Poet Is Like A Species In Nature (not An Individuum Genericum Or Specificum ) And Can Never Recur. That Nothing Shd. Be Old Or Borrowed However Cannot Be.

Ask Of Her, The Mighty Mother. Her Reply Puts This Other Question: What Is Spring?- Growth In Every Thing - Flesh And Fleece, Fur And Feather, Grass And Green World All Together, Star-eyed Strawberry Breasted Throstle Above Her Nested Cluster Of Bugle Blue Eggs Thin Forms And Warms The Life Within, And Bird And Blossom Swell In Sod Or Sheath Or Shell.

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.

And For All This, Nature Is Never Spent; There Lives The Dearest Freshness Deep Down Things; And Though The Last Lights Off The Black West Went Oh, Morning, At The Brown Brink Eastward, Springs— Because The Holy Ghost Over The Bent World Broods With Warm Breast And With Ah! Bright Wings.