Much Of The Possibility Of Being Cheerful

You Were Made Perfectly To Be Loved - And Surely I Have Loved You, In The Idea Of You, My Whole Life Long.

What I Do And What I Dream Include Thee, As The Wine Must Taste Of Its Own Grapes.

But So Fair, She Takes The Breath Of Men Away Who Gaze Upon Her Unaware.

Unless You Can Muse In A Crowd All Day On The Absent Face That Fixed You; Unless You Can Love, As The Angels May, With The Breadth Of Heaven Betwixt You; Unless You Can Dream That His Faith Is Fast, Through Behoving And Unbehoving; Unless You Can Die When The Dream Is Past — Oh, Never Call It Loving!

Sing, Seraph With The Glory! Heaven Is High. Sing, Poet With The Sorrow! Earth Is Low. The Universe's Inward Voices Cry "amen" To Either Song Of Joy And Woe. Sing, Seraph, Poet! Sing On Equally!