... The Open Sky Sits Upon Our

Poetry Should Surprise By A Fine Excess And Not By Singularity, It Should Strike The Reader As A Wording Of His Own Highest Thoughts, And Appear Almost A Remembrance.

The Redbreast Whistles From A Garden-croft; And Gathering Swallows Twitter In The Skies.

Nor Do We Merely Feel These Essences For One Short Hour No, Even As These Trees That Whisper Round A Temple Become Soon Dear As The Temples Self, So Does The Moon, The Passion Posey, Glories Infinite, Haunt Us Till They Become A Cheering Light Unto Our Souls And Bound To Us So Fast, That Wheather There Be Shine, Or Gloom O'er Cast, They Always Must Be With Us, Or We Die.

I Myself Am Pursuing The Same Instinctive Course As The Veriest Human Animal You Can Think Of I Am, However Young, Writing At Random Straining At Particles Of Light In The Midst Of A Great Darkness Without Knowing The Bearing Of Any One Assertion, Of Any One Opinion. Yet May I Not In This Be Free From Sin?

You Are Always New. The Last Of Your Kisses Was Even The Sweetest; The Last Smile The Brightest; The Last Movement The Gracefullest.