The Written Word Is Everything.

But In The Finished Art Of The Song The Use Of Words Has No Connection With The Use Of Words In Poetry.

And Not A Girl Goes Walking Along The Cotswold Lanes But Knows Men's Eyes In April Are Quicker Than Their Brains.

Grant Us The Wil1 To Fashion As We Feel, Grant Us The Strength To Labor As We Know, Grant Us The Purpose, Ribbed And Edged With Steel, To Strike The Blow.

In The Corridors Under Tehre Is Nothing But Sleep. And Stiller Than Ever On Orchard Boughs They Keep Tryst With The Moon, And Deep Is The Silence, Deep On Moon-washed Apples Of Wonder.

This Be My Pilgrimage And Goal Daily To March And Find The Secret Phrases Of The Soul, The Evangels Of The Mind.