Look, Then, Into Thine Heart, And Write!

All Things Are Symbols.

Nature Paints Not; In Oils, But Frescoes The Great Dome Of Heaven; With Sunsets, And The Lovely Forms Of Clouds; And Flying Vapors.

Dreams Or Illusions, Call Them What You Will, They Lift Us From The Commonplace Of Life To Better Things.

White Swan Of Cities Slumbering In Thy Nest . . . White Phantom City, Whose Untrodden Streets Are Rivers, And Whose Pavements Are The Shifting Shadows Of The Palaces And Strips Of Sky.

Time Has Laid His Hand Upon My Heart, Gently, Not Smiting It, But As A Harper Lays His Open Palm Upon His Harp, To Deaden Its Vibrations.