Poetry, Like Love, Is Something We Never

I Want To Know A Butcher Paints, A Baker Rhymes For His Pursuit, Candlestick-maker Much Acquaints His Soul With Song, Or, Haply Mute, Blows Out His Brains Upon The Flute.

Mid The Sharp, Short Emerald Wheat, Scarce Risen Three Fingers Well, The Wild Tulip At The End Of Its Tube, Blows Out Its Great Red Bell, Like A Thin Clear Bubble Of Blood, For The Children To Pick And Sell.

Be Sure That God Ne'er Dooms To Waste The Strength He Deigns Impart.

Earth Being So Good, Would Heaven Seem Best?

The Great Mind Knows The Power Of Gentleness.