Time Is A Dream ...

I'm Not In The Least Southern; I'm Entirely New England.

It Is Moonlight. Alone In The Silence I Ascend My Stairs Once More, While Waves Remote In Pale Blue Starlight Crash On A White Sand Shore. It Is Moonlight. The Garden Is Silent. I Stand In My Room Alone. Across My Wall, From The Far-off Moon, A Rain Of Fire Is Thrown. There Are Houses Hanging Above The Stars, And Stars Hung Under The Sea, And A Wind From The Long Blue Vault Of Time Waves My Curtains For Me. I Wait In The Dark Once More, Swung Between Space And Space: Before The Mirror I Lift My Hands And Face My Remembered Face.

Music I Heard With You Was More Than Music, And Bread I Broke With You Was More Than Bread. Now That I Am Without You, All Is Desolate, All That Was Once So Beautiful Is Dead. Your Hands Once Touched This Table And This Silver,and I Have Seen Your Fingers Hold This Glass. These Things Do Not Remember You, Beloved: And Yet Your Touch Upon Them Will Not Pass. For It Was In My Heart You Moved Among Them,and Blessed Them With Your Hands And With Your Eyes.and In My Heart They Will Remember Always: They Knew You Once, O Beautiful And Wise!

No God Save Self, That Is The Way To Live.

As Poetry Is The Highest Speech Of Man, It Can Not Only Accept And Contain, But In The End Express Best Everything In The World, Or In Himself, That He Discovers. It Will Absorb And Transmute, As It Always Has Done, And Glorify, All That We Can Know. This Has Always Been, And Always Will Be, Poetry's Office.