A Late Lark Twitters From The Quiet

Life Is A Smoke That Curls- Curls In A Flickering Skein, That Winds And Whisks And Whirls, A Figment Thin And Vain, Into The Vast Inane. One End For Hut And Hall.

Life - Life - Let There Be Life! Better A Thousand Times The Roaring Hours When Wave And Wind, Like The Arch-murderer In Flight From The Avenger At His Heel, Storm Through The Desolate Fastnesses And Wild Waste Places Of The World!

Into The Winter's Gray Delight, Into The Summer's Golden Dream, Holy And High And Impartial, Death, The Mother Of Life, Mingles All Men For Ever.

Now, To Read Poetry At All Is To Have An Ideal Anthology Of One's Own, And In That Possession To Be Incapable Of Content With The Anthologies Of All The World Besides.

Essayists, Like Poets, Are Born And Not Made, And For One Worth Remembering, The World Is Confronted With A Hundred Not Worth Reading. Your True Essayist Is, In A Literary Sense, The Friend Of Everybody.