No God Save Self, That Is The

One Is Least Sure Of One's Self, Sometimes, When One Is Most Positive.

O Sweet Clean Earth, From Whom The Green Blade Cometh! When We Are Dead, My Best Beloved And I, Close Well Above Us, That We May Rest Forever, Sending Up Grass And Blossoms To The Sky.

Should I Not Hear, As I Lie Down In Dust, The Horns Of Glory Blowing Above My Burial?

As Poetry Is The Highest Speech Of Man, It Can Not Only Accept And Contain, But In The End Express Best Everything In The World, Or In Himself, That He Discovers. It Will Absorb And Transmute, As It Always Has Done, And Glorify, All That We Can Know. This Has Always Been, And Always Will Be, Poetry's Office.

I Love You, What Star Do You Live On?