Sad Patience, Too Near Neighbour To Despair.

Cruel, But Composed And Bland, Dumb, Inscrutable And Grand, So Tiberius Might Have Sat, Had Tiberius Been A Cat.

Poetry; A Criticism Of Life Under The Conditions Fixed For Such A Criticism By The Laws Of Poetic Truth And Poetic Beauty.

Ah, Love, Let Us Be True To One Another! For The World, Which Seems To Lie Before Us Like A Land Of Dreams, So Various, So Beautiful, So New, Hath Really Neither Joy, Nor Love, Nor Light, Nor Certitude, Nor Peace, Nor Help For Pain; And We Are Here As On A Darkling Plain Swept With Confused Alarms Of Struggle And Flight, Where Ignorant Armies Clash By Night.

Goethe In Weimar Sleeps, And Greece, Long Since, Saw Byron 's Struggle Cease.

Now The Great Winds Shoreward Blow Now The Salt Tides Seaward Flow Now The Wild White Horses Play Champ And Chafe And Toss In The Spray.