For Poets (bear The Word)

I Wish I Were The Lily's Leaf To Fade Upon That Bosom Warm, Content To Wither, Pale And Brief, The Trophy Of Thy Paler Form.

What Frightens Me Is That Men Are Content With What Is Not Life At All.

And Each Man Stands With His Face In The Light. Of His Own Drawn Sword, Ready To Do What A Hero Can.

The Essence Of All Beauty, I Call Love.

When We First Met And Loved, I Did Not Build Upon The Event With Marble. . . .