Waiting For The Spark From Heaven To

All The Live Murmur Of A Summer's Day.

Whoever Sets Himself To See Things As They Are Will Find Himself One Of A Very Small Circle But It Is Only By This Small Circle Resolutely Doing Its Own Work That Adequate Ideas Will Ever Get Current At All.

Still Bent To Make Some Port He Knows Not Where, Still Standing For Some False Impossible Shore.

For Poetry The Idea Is Everything; The Rest Is A World Of Illusion.

With Aching Hands And Bleeding Feet We Dig And Heap, Lay Stone On Stone; We Bear The Burden And The Heat Of The Long Day, And Wish 'twere Done. Not Till The Hours Of Light Return All We Have Built Do We Discern.