The Mortal Sickness Of A Mind Too

I Think That To Transfuse Emotion - Not To Transmit Thought But To Set Up In The Reader's Sense A Vibration Corresponding To What Was Felt By The Writer - Is The Peculiar Function Of Poetry.

And Silence Sounds No Worse Than Cheers After Earth Has Stopped The Ears.

Who Made The World I Cannot Tell; 'tis Made, And Here Am I In Hell. My Hand, Though Now My Knuckles Bleed, I Never Soiled With Such A Deed.

But Men At Whiles Are Sober And Think By Fits And Starts. And If They Think, They Fasten Their Hands Upon Their Hearts

We Now To Peace And Darkness And Earth And Thee Restore Thy Creature That Thou Madest And Wilt Cast Forth No More.