There Is No Place In Which To

The Air Is Like A Butterfly With Frail Blue Wings. The Happy Earth Looks At The Sky And Sings.

For Nothing Keeps A Poet In His High Singing Mood Like Unappeasable Hunger For Unattainable Food.

What Matters Death, If Freedom Be Not Dead? No Flags Are Fair, If Freedom's Flag Be Furled. Who Fights For Freedom, Goes With Joyful Tread To Meet The Fires Of Hell Against Him Hurled.

I Suppose I Passed It A Hundred Times, But I Always Stop For A Minute. And Look At The House, The Tragic House, The House With Nobody In It.

The Fairy Poet Takes A Sheet Of Moonbeam, Silver White; His Ink Is Dew From Daisies Sweet, His Pen A Point Of Light.