Whoso loves, believes in the impossible

Men of science, osteologists And surgeons, beat some poets, in respect For nature,-count nought common or unclean, Spend raptures upon perfect specimens Of indurated veins, distorted joints, Or beautiful new cases of curved spine; While we, we are shocked at nature's falling off, We dare to shrink back from her warts and blains.

But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence than the strong man in his wrath!

If thou must love me, let it be for naught except for love's sake only.

A grave, on which to rest from singing?

When the dust of death has choked a great man's voice, the common words he said turn oracles, the common thoughts he yoked like horses draw like griffins.

You're something between a dream and a miracle.