It Should Here Be Added That Poetry

The Written Word Is Everything.

In The Corridors Under Tehre Is Nothing But Sleep. And Stiller Than Ever On Orchard Boughs They Keep Tryst With The Moon, And Deep Is The Silence, Deep On Moon-washed Apples Of Wonder.

Poetry Being The Sign Of That Which All Men Desire, Even Though The Desire Be Unconscious, Intensity Of Life Or Completeness Of Experience, The Universality Of Its Appeal Is A Matter Of Course.

This Be My Pilgrimage And Goal Daily To March And Find The Secret Phrases Of The Soul, The Evangels Of The Mind.

Grant Us The Wil1 To Fashion As We Feel, Grant Us The Strength To Labor As We Know, Grant Us The Purpose, Ribbed And Edged With Steel, To Strike The Blow.