THAT crazed girl improvising her music. Her poetry, dancing upon the shore, Her soul in division from itself Climbing, falling She knew not where, Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship, Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing Heroically lost, heroically found. No matter what disaster occurred She stood in desperate music wound, Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph Where the bales and the baskets lay No common intelligible sound But sang, 'O sea-starved, hungry sea

The true poet is all the time a visionary and whether with friends or not, as much alone as a man on his death bed.

I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .

We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand; Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create.

The Irishman sustains himself during brief periods of joy by the knowledge that tragedy is just around the corner.

Everything we look upon is blest.

Too many things are occurring for even a big heart to hold.