All Recurring Joy Is Pain Refined.

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

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

When Trying To Explain Anything, I Usually Find That The Bible, That Great Collection Of Magnificent And Varied Poetry, Has Said It Before In The Best Possible Way.

My Heart Is Tuned To Sorrow, And The Strings Vibrate Most Readily To Minor Chords, Searching And Sad; My Mind Is Stuffed With Words Which Voice The Passion And The Ache Of Things: Illusions Beating With Their Baffled Wings Against The Walls Of Circumstance.

Guarded Within The Old Red Wall's Embrace, Marshalled Like Soldiers In Gay Company, The Tulips Stand Arrayed. Here Infantry Wheels Out Into The Sunlight.