The Hippopotamus's Day Is Passed In Sleep;

Between The Conception And The Creation, Between The Emotion And The Response, Falls The Shadow.

But What Have I, But What Have I, My Friend, To Give You, What Can You Receive From Me? Only The Friendship And The Sympathy Of One About To Reach Her Journey's End.

Paint Me The Bold Anfractuous Rocks Faced By The Snarled And Yelping Seas.

The Wounded Surgeon Plies The Steel That Questions The Distempered Part; Beneath The Bleeding Hands We Feel The Sharp Compassion Of The Healer's Art Resolving The Enigma Of The Fever Chart.

A Good Poet Will Usually Borrow From Authors Remote In Time, Or Alien In Language, Or Diverse In Interest.