I Think There's An Enormous Lot Of

For In This Walk, This Voyage, It Is Yourself, The Profound History Of Your 'self,' That Now As Always You Encounter.

It Is Moonlight. Alone In The Silence I Ascend My Stairs Once More, While Waves Remote In Pale Blue Starlight Crash On A White Sand Shore. It Is Moonlight. The Garden Is Silent. I Stand In My Room Alone. Across My Wall, From The Far-off Moon, A Rain Of Fire Is Thrown. There Are Houses Hanging Above The Stars, And Stars Hung Under The Sea, And A Wind From The Long Blue Vault Of Time Waves My Curtains For Me. I Wait In The Dark Once More, Swung Between Space And Space: Before The Mirror I Lift My Hands And Face My Remembered Face.

How Shall We Praise The Magnificence Of The Dead, The Great Man Humbled, The Haughty Brought To Dust?

Life Is The Thing--the Song Of Life-- The Eager Plow, The Thirsty Knife!

As Poetry Is The Highest Speech Of Man, It Can Not Only Accept And Contain, But In The End Express Best Everything In The World, Or In Himself, That He Discovers. It Will Absorb And Transmute, As It Always Has Done, And Glorify, All That We Can Know. This Has Always Been, And Always Will Be, Poetry's Office.