Poetry, Far More Than Fiction, Reveals The

Not A Softness Anywhere About Me, Only Whalebone And Brocade.

Freighted With Hope, Crimsoned With Joy, We Scatter The Leaves Of Our Opening Rose.

I Ask But One Thing Of You, Only One, That Always You Will Be My Dream Of You; That Never Shall I Wake To Find Untrue All This I Have Believed And Rested On, Forever Vanished, Like A Vision Gone Out Into The Night. Alas, How Few There Are Who Strike In Us A Chord We Knew Existed, But So Seldom Heard Its Tone We Tremble At The Half-forgotten Sound. The World Is Full Of Rude Awakenings And Heaven-born Castles Shattered To The Ground, Yet Still Our Human Longing Vainly Clings To A Belief In Beauty Through All Wrongs. O Stay Your Hand, And Leave My Heart Its Songs!

Happiness, To Some, Is Elation; To Others It Is Mere Stagnation.

All Recurring Joy Is Pain Refined.