Do Ye Hear The Children

Of Writing Many Books There Is No End; And I Who Have Written Much In Prose And Verse For Others' Uses, Will Write Now For Mine,- Will Write My Story For My Better Self, As When You Paint Your Portrait For A Friend, Who Keeps It In A Drawer And Looks At It Long After He Has Ceased To Love You, Just To Hold Together What He Was And Is.

If I Leave All For Thee, Wilt Thou Exchange And Be All To Me?

First Time He Kissed Me, He But Only Kissed The Fingers Of This Hand Wherewith I Write; And, Ever Since, It Grew More Clean And White.

Yet How Proud We Are, In Daring To Look Down Upon Ourselves!

Two Human Loves Make One Divine.