The Believer Is Happy. The Doubter Is

There Are Moments When, Even To The Sober Eye Of Reason, The World Of Our Sad Humanity Must Assume The Aspect Of Hell.

We Had Always Dwelled Together, Beneath A Tropical Sun, In The Valley Of The Many Colored Grass.

I Have No Words Alas! To Tell The Loveliness Of Loving Well

Books, Indeed, Were His Sole Luxuries

With Me Poetry Has Not Been A Purpose, But A Passion.