The question that he frames in all but words is what to make of a diminished thing.

Far in the pillared dark Thrush music went- Almost like a call to come in To the dark and lament. But no, I was out for stars: I would not come in. I meant not even if asked, And I hadn't been.

A definite purpose, like blinders on a horse, inevitably narrows its possessor's point of view.

You, of course, are a rose-- But were always a rose.

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

There is little much beyond the grave, but the strong are saying nothing until they see.

Nor is there wanting in the press Some spirit to stand simply forth, Heroic in it nakedness, Against the uttermost of earth. The tale of earth's unhonored things Sounds nobler there than 'neath the sun; And the mind whirls and the heart sings, And a shout greets the daring one.