Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant-- Success in Circuit lies Too bright for our infirm Delight The Truth's superb surprise As Lightning to the Children eased With explanation kind The Truth must dazzle gradually Or every man be blind--

We turn not older with years but newer every day.

Life is so rotatory that the wilderness falls to each, sometime.

The Things that never can come back, are several - Childhood - some forms of Hope - the Dead.

Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all, And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm. I've heard it in the chilliest land And on the strangest sea; Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.

God's little Blond Blessing we have long deemed you, and hope his so-called Will will not compel him to revoke you.