Poetry Is That Art Which Selects And

Hark To That Shrill, Sudden Shout, The Cry Of An Applauding Multitude, Swayed By Some Loud-voiced Orator Who Wields The Living Mass As If He Were Its Soul!

Features, The Great Soul's Apparent Seat.

God Hath Yoked To Guilt Her Pale Tormentor,--misery.

I Hear The Howl Of The Wind That Brings The Long Drear Storm On Its Heavy Wings.

On My Cornice Linger The Ripe Black Grapes Ungathered; Children Fill The Groves With The Echoes Of Their Glee, Gathering Tawny Chestnuts, And Shouting When Beside Them Drops The Heavy Fruit Of The Tall Black-walnut Tree.