Birds Buildbut Not I Build; No, But

It Is A Happy Thing That There Is No Royal Road To Poetry. The World Should Know By This Time That One Cannot Reach Parnassus Except By Flying Thither.

Not, I’ll Not, Carrion Comfort, Despair, Not Feast On Thee; Not Untwist—slack They May Be—these Last Strands Of Man In Me ór, Most Weary, Cry I Can No More. I Can; Can Something, Hope, Wish Day Come, Not Choose Not To Be.

I Do Not Write For The Public. You Are My Public And I Hope To Convert You.

The World Is Charged With The Grandeur Of God. It Will Flame Out, Like Shining From Shook Foil; It Gathers To A Greatness, Like The Ooze Of Oil Crushed.

My Own Heart Let Me More Have Pity On; Let Me Live To My Sad Self Hereafter Kind, Charitable; Not Live This Tormented Mind With This Tormented Mind Tormenting Yet.