And The Choice Goes By

The Heart Forgets Its Sorrow And Ache.

Worshippers Of Light Ancestral Make The Present Light A Crime.

The Pale And Quiet Moon Makes Her Calm Forehead Bare, And The Last Fragments Of The Storm, Like Shattered Rigging From A Fight At Sea, Silent And Few, Are Drifting Over Me.

If God Made Poets For Anything, It Was To Keep Alive The Traditions Of The Pure, The Holy, And The Beautiful.

A Friendship Counting Nearly Forty Years Is The Finest Kind Of Shade-tree I Know.