One Hates An Author That's All Author.

For A Man To Become A Poet (witness Petrarch And Dante), He Must Be In Love, Or Miserable.

Oh Who Can Tell, Save He Whose Heart Hath Tried.

Yet Still There Whispers The Small Voice Within, Heard Through Gain's Silence, And O'er Glory's Din; Whatever Creed Be Taught Or Land Be Trod, Man's Conscience Is The Oracle Of God.

Ah, Happy Years! Once More Who Would Not Be A Boy?

But 'midst The Crowd, The Hum, The Shock Of Men, To Hear, To See, To Feel, And To Possess, And Roam Along, The World's Tired Denizen, With None Who Bless Us, None Whom We Can Bless.