Purple Lilies Dante Blew To A Larger

Many A Fervid Man Writes Books As Cold And Flat As Graveyard Stones.

I Begin To Think That None Are So Bold As The Timid, When They Are Fairly Roused.

Experience, Like A Pale Musician, Holds A Dulcimer Of Patience In His Hand.

Sing, Seraph With The Glory! Heaven Is High. Sing, Poet With The Sorrow! Earth Is Low. The Universe's Inward Voices Cry "amen" To Either Song Of Joy And Woe. Sing, Seraph, Poet! Sing On Equally!

The Beautiful Seems Right By Force Of Beauty And The Feeble Wrong Because Of Weakness.