God Himself is the best Poet, And the Real is His song.

The little cares that fretted me, I lost them yesterday Among the fields above the sea, Among the winds at play.

Books are men of higher stature, and the only men that speak aloud for future times to hear.

Will that light come again, As now these tears come...falling hot and real!

There, that is our secret: go to sleep! You will wake, and remember, and understand.

Our Euripides the human, With his droppings of warm tears, and his touchings of things common Till they rose to meet the spheres.

With what cracked pitchers go we to deep wells In this world!