All Poetry Is Putting The

What Joy Is Better Than The News Of Friends?

God Is The Perfect Poet.

The Heavens And Earth Stay As They Were; My Heart Beats As It Beat: The Truth Remains The Truth.

Mid The Sharp, Short Emerald Wheat, Scarce Risen Three Fingers Well, The Wild Tulip At The End Of Its Tube, Blows Out Its Great Red Bell, Like A Thin Clear Bubble Of Blood, For The Children To Pick And Sell.

Be Sure That God Ne'er Dooms To Waste The Strength He Deigns Impart.