I Hold That A Man

Such Ever Was Love's Way: To Rise, It Stoops.

How Well I Know What I Mean To Do When The Long Dark Autumn Evenings Come, And Where, My Soul, Is Thy Pleasant Hue? With The Music Of All Thy Voices, Dumb In Life’s November Too! I Shall Be Found By The Fire, Suppose, O’er A Great Wise Book As Beseemeth Age, While The Shutters Flap As The Cross-wind Blows, And I Turn The Page, And I Turn The Page, Not Verse Now, Only Prose!

Genius Has Somewhat Of The Infantine; But Of The Childish Not A Touch Or Taint.

Let's Contend No More, Love, Strive Nor Weep: All Be As Before Love, - Only Sleep.

Never Brag, Never Bluster, Never Blush.