When I Was Quite A Boy I

Sunrays, Leaning On Our Southern Hills And Lighting Wild Cloud-mountains That Drag The Hills Along, Oft Ends The Day Of Your Shifting Brilliant Laughter Chill As A Dull Face Frowning On A Song. Ay, But Shows The South-west A Ripple-feathered Bosom Blown To Silver While The Clouds Are Shaken And Ascend Scaling The Mid-heavens As They Stream, There Comes A Sunset Rich, Deep Like Love In Beauty Without End.

The Man Who Has No Mind Of His Own Lends It To The Priests.

Days, When The Ball Of Our Vision Had Eagles That Flew Unabashed To Sun; When The Graps On The Bow Was Decision, And Arrow And Hand And Eye Were One; When The Pleasures, Like Waves To A Swimmer, Came Heaving For Rapture Ahead! - Invoke Them, They Dwindle, They Glimmer As Lights Over Mounds Of The Dead.

The Man Of Science Is Nothing If Not A Poet Gone Wrong.

Faith Works Miracles. At Least It Allows Time For Them.