Thou Two-faced Year, Mother Of

Poetry Must Be Simple, Sensuous, Or Impassioned.

When Angels Visit Earth, The Messengers Of God's Decree, They Come As Lightning, Wind: Before The Throne, They All Are Living Fire.

Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor, Your Huddled Masses Yearning To Breathe Free.

The Soul, At Peace, Reflects The Peace Without, Forgetting Grief As Sunset Skies Forget The Morning's Transient Shower.

Kindle The Taper Like The Steadfast Star Ablaze On Evening's Forehead O'er The Earth, And Add Each Night A Lustre Till Afar An Eightfold Splendor Shine Above Thy Hearth.