Poetry Is Not The Thing Said, But

This Is For All Ill-treated Fellows Unborn And Unbegot, For Them To Read When They're In Trouble And I Am Not.

Who Made The World I Cannot Tell; 'tis Made, And Here Am I In Hell. My Hand, Though Now My Knuckles Bleed, I Never Soiled With Such A Deed.

If A Man Will Comprehend The Richness And Variety Of The Universe, And Inspire His Mind With A Due Measure Of Wonder And Awe, He Must Contemplate The Human Intellect Not Only On Its Heights Of Genius But In Its Abysses Of Ineptitude.

We Now To Peace And Darkness And Earth And Thee Restore Thy Creature That Thou Madest And Wilt Cast Forth No More.

Therefore, Since The World Has Still Much Good, But Much Less Good Than Ill