Such Phantom Blossoms Palely Shining

This Is Darrow, Inadequately Scrawled, With His Young, Old Heart, And His Drawl, And His Infinite Paradox And His Sadness, And Kindness, And His Artist Sense That Drives Him To Shape His Life To Something Harmonious, Even Against The Schemes Of God.

. . . The Weal Of The Race, And The Cause Of Humanity, Here And Now, Are Enough To Give Life Meaning And Death As Well.

I Have Known The Silence Of The Stars And Of The Sea. And The Silence Of The City When It Pauses, And The Silence Of A Man And A Maid, And The Silence For Which Music Alone Finds The Word.

The Snows And The Roses Of Yesterday Are Vanished; And What Is Love But A Rose That Fades?

The Dust's For Crawling, Heaven's For Flying, Wherefore, O Soul, Whose Wings Are Grown, Soar Upward To The Sun!