An Ignorance Of Means May

A Woman's Pity Sometimes Makes Her Mad.

And Lips Say “god Be Pitiful,” Who Ne'er Said “god Be Praised.”

And Lilies Are Still Lilies, Pulled By Smutty Hands, Though Spotted From Their White.

Sing, Seraph With The Glory! Heaven Is High. Sing, Poet With The Sorrow! Earth Is Low. The Universe's Inward Voices Cry "amen" To Either Song Of Joy And Woe. Sing, Seraph, Poet! Sing On Equally!

O Rose, Who Dares To Name Thee? No Longer Roseate Now, Nor Soft, Nor Sweet, But Pale, And Hard, And Dry, As Stubblewheat, Kept Seven Years In A Drawer, Thy Titles Shame Thee.