O Harp Of Life, So Speedily Unstrung!

We Weep When We Are Born, Not When We Die!

Though I Be Shut In Darkness, And Become Insentient Dust Blown Idly Here And There, I Count Oblivion A Scant Price To Pay For Having Once Had Held Against My Lip Life's Brimming Cup Of Hydromel And Rue--for Having Once Known Woman's Holy Love And A Child's Kiss, And For A Little Space Been Boon Companion To The Day And Night, Fed On The Odors Of The Summer Dawn, And Folded In The Beauty Of The Stars. Dear Lord, Though I Be Changed To Senseless Clay, And Serve The Potter As He Turns His Wheel, I Thank Thee For The Gracious Gift Of Tears!

True Art Selects And Paraphrases, But Seldom Gives A Verbatim Translation.

I Like To Have A Thing Suggested Rather Than Told In Full. When Every Detail Is Given, The Mind Rests Satisfied, And The Imagination Loses The Desire To Use Its Own Wings.

After A Debauch Of Thunder-shower, The Weather Takes The Pledge And Signs It With A Rainbow.