Polyphonic Prose Is A Kind Of Free

Without Poetry The Soul And Heart Of Man Starves And Dies.

Now You Are Come! You Tremble Like A Star Poised Where, Behind Earth's Rim, The Sun Has Set. Your Voice Has Sung Across My Heart, But Numb And Mute, I Have No Tones To Answer.

Oh! To Be A Flower Nodding In The Sun, Bending, Then Upspringing As The Breezes Run.

When I Go Away From You The World Beats Dead Like A Slackened Drum.

The Stigma Of Oddness Is The Price A Myopic World Always Exacts Of Genius.