Whatever's Lost, It First Was Won.

And Wilt Thou Have Me Fashion Into Speech The Love I Bear Thee, Finding Words Enough, And Hold The Torch Out, While The Winds Are Rough, Between Our Faces, To Cast Light On Each? - I Dropt It At Thy Feet. I Cannot Teach My Hand To Hold My Spirits So Far Off From Myself--me--that I Should Bring Thee Proof In Words, Of Love Hid In Me Out Of Reach. Nay, Let The Silence Of My Womanhood Commend My Woman-love To Thy Belief, - Seeing That I Stand Unwon, However Wooed, And Rend The Garment Of My Life, In Brief, By A Most Dauntless, Voiceless Fortitude, Lest One Touch Of This Heart Convey Its Grief.

The Beautiful Seems Right By Force Of Beauty And The Feeble Wrong Because Of Weakness.

Men Of Science, Osteologists And Surgeons, Beat Some Poets, In Respect For Nature,-count Nought Common Or Unclean, Spend Raptures Upon Perfect Specimens Of Indurated Veins, Distorted Joints, Or Beautiful New Cases Of Curved Spine; While We, We Are Shocked At Nature's Falling Off, We Dare To Shrink Back From Her Warts And Blains.

With Stammering Lips And Insufficient Sound I Strive And Struggle To Deliver Right The Music Of My Nature.

Will That Light Come Again, As Now These Tears Come...falling Hot And Real!