Beauty Is Whatever Gives Joy.

You See, I Am A Poet, And Not Quite Right In The Head, Darling. It’s Only That.

Her Lawn Looks Like A Meadow, And If She Mows The Place She Leaves The Clover Standing And The Queen Anne's Lace.

Summer Set Lip To Earth's Bosom Bare, And Left The Flushed Print In A Poppy There. I Will Touch A Hundred Flowers And Not Pick One.

Thus In The Winter Stands The Lonely Tree, Nor Knows What Birds Have Vanished One By One, Yet Knows Its Boughs More Silent Than Before

Let Geese Gabble And Hiss, But Heroes Seek Release From Dusty Bondage Into Luminous Air.