The Stigma Of Oddness Is The Price

If What We Worship Fail Us, Still The Fire Burns On, And It Is Much To Have Believed.

To-night When The Full-bellied Moon Swallows The Stars. Grant That I Know.

May Is Much Sunshine Through Small Leaves.

I Never Deny Poems When They Come; Whatever I Am Doing, Whatever I Am Writing, I Lay It Aside And Attend To The Arriving Poem.

Life Is A Stream On Which We Strew Petal By Petal The Flower Of Our Heart; The End Lost In Dream, They Float Past Our View, We Only Watch Their Glad, Early Start. Freighted With Hope, Crimsoned With Joy, We Scatter The Leaves Of Our Opening Rose; Their Widening Scope, Their Distant Employ, We Never Shall Know. And The Stream As It Flows Sweeps Them Away, Each One Is Gone Ever Beyond Into Infinite Ways. We Alone Stay While Years Hurry On, The Flower Fared Forth, Though Its Fragrance Still Stays.