Art remains the one way possible of speaking truth.

Stand still, true poet that you are! I know you; let me try and draw you. Some night you'll fail us: when afar You rise, remember one man saw you, Knew you, and named a star!

God is the perfect poet, Who in his person acts his own creations.

Rats They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles. Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats.

We find great things are made of little things, And little things go lessening till at last Comes God behind them.

A face to lose youth for, to occupy age With the dream of, meet death with.

grow old with me. the best is yet to be. the last of life for which the first was made.