It Should Here Be Added That Poetry

Grant Us The Wil1 To Fashion As We Feel, Grant Us The Strength To Labor As We Know, Grant Us The Purpose, Ribbed And Edged With Steel, To Strike The Blow.

If It Is An Imperfect Word, No External Circumstance Can Heighten Its Value As Poetry.

And Not A Girl Goes Walking Along The Cotswold Lanes But Knows Men's Eyes In April Are Quicker Than Their Brains.

It Should Here Be Added That Poetry Habitually Takes The Form Of Verse.

In The Corridors Under Tehre Is Nothing But Sleep. And Stiller Than Ever On Orchard Boughs They Keep Tryst With The Moon, And Deep Is The Silence, Deep On Moon-washed Apples Of Wonder.