Men Are Not Angels, Neither Are They

When I Love Most, Love Is Disguised. In Hate; And When Hate Is Surprised, In Love, Then I Hate Most.

Needs There Groan A World In Anguish Just To Teach Us Sympathy?

Fail I Alone, In Words And Deeds? Why, All Men Strive And Who Succeeds?

Mid The Sharp, Short Emerald Wheat, Scarce Risen Three Fingers Well, The Wild Tulip At The End Of Its Tube, Blows Out Its Great Red Bell, Like A Thin Clear Bubble Of Blood, For The Children To Pick And Sell.

Each Life Unfulfilled, You See; It Hangs Still, Patchy And Scrappy: We Have Not Sighed Deep, Laughed Free, Starved, Feasted, Despaired,—been Happy.