One Is Least Sure Of One's Self,

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

It Is Moonlight. Alone In The Silence I Ascend My Stairs Once More, While Waves Remote In Pale Blue Starlight Crash On A White Sand Shore. It Is Moonlight. The Garden Is Silent. I Stand In My Room Alone. Across My Wall, From The Far-off Moon, A Rain Of Fire Is Thrown. There Are Houses Hanging Above The Stars, And Stars Hung Under The Sea, And A Wind From The Long Blue Vault Of Time Waves My Curtains For Me. I Wait In The Dark Once More, Swung Between Space And Space: Before The Mirror I Lift My Hands And Face My Remembered Face.

[at A Musical Concert:] . . . The Music's Pure Algebra Of Enchantment.

I'm Afraid I Wasn't Much Of A Student, But My Casual Reading Was Enormous.

I'm Not In The Least Southern; I'm Entirely New England.