Men Are Not Angels, Neither Are They

Faultless To A Fault.

It's Like Those Eerie Stories Nurses Tell, Of How Some Actor On A Stage Played Death, With Pasteboard Crown, Sham Orb And Tinselled Dart, And Called Himself The Monarch Of The World; Then, Going In The Tire-room Afterward, Because The Play Was Done, To Shift Himself, Got Touched Upon The Sleeve Familiarly, The Moment He Had Shut The Closet Door, By Death Himself. Thus God Might Touch A Pope At Unawares, Ask What His Baubles Mean, And Whose Part He Presumed To Play Just Now. Best Be Yourself, Imperial, Plain And True!

Still More Labyrinthine Buds The Rose.

All The Breath And The Bloom Of The Year In The Bag Of One Bee; All The Wonder And Wealth Of The Mine In The Heart Of One Gem; In The Core Of One Pearl All The Shade And The Shine Of The Sea; Breath And Bloom, Shade And Shine,- Wonder, Wealth, And-how Far Above Them- Truth, That's Brighter Than Gem, Truth, That's Purer Than Pearl,- Brightest Truth, Purest Trust In The Universe- All Were For Me In The Kiss Of One Girl.

Inscribe All Human Effort With One Word, Artistry's Haunting Curse, The Incomplete!