The Poet Is The Man Made To

Painting Is The Intermediate Somewhat Between A Thought And A Thing.

Forth From His Dark And Lonely Hiding-place, (portentous Sight!) The Owlet Atheism, Sailing On Obscene Wings Athwart The Noon, Drops His Blue-fringed Lids, And Holds Them Close, And Hooting At The Glorious Sun In Heaven, Cries Out, ''where Is It?''

And The Devil Did Grin, For His Darling Sin Is Pride That Apes Humility.

The Fair Breeze Blew, The White Foam Flew, And The Forrow Followed Free. We Were The First To Ever Burst Into The Silent Sea.

Nor Dim Nor Red, Like God's Own Head, The Glorious Sun Uprist