Genius has somewhat of the infantine; but of the childish not a touch or taint.
The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung To their first fault, and withered in their pride.
If you can sit at set of sun And count the deeds that you have done And counting find oneself-denying act, one word That eased the heart of him that heard. One glance most kind, Which fell like sunshine where he went, Then you may count that day well spent.
O lyric Love, half angel and half bird. And all a wonder and a wild desire.
Talent should minister to genius.
Truth that peeps Over the glass's edge when dinner's done.