Many A Time I Have Been Half

The Poppies Hung Dew-dabbled On Their Stalks.

It Is A Flaw In Happiness To See Beyond Our Bourn, - It Forces Us In Summer Skies To Mourn, It Spoils The Singing Of The Nightingale.

The Roaring Of The Wind Is My Wife And The Stars Through The Window Pane Are My Children.

The Genius Of Poetry Must Work Out Its Own Salvation In A Man; It Cannot Be Matured By Law And Precept, But By Sensation And Watchfulness In Itself. That Which Is Creative Must Create Itself.

Fade Far Away, Dissolve, And Quite Forget.