Even When Poetry Has A Meaning, As

Nature, Not Content With Denying Him The Ability To Think, Has Endowed Him With The Ability To Write.

June Suns, You Cannot Store Them To Warm The Winter's Cold, The Lad That Hopes For Heaven Shall Fill His Mouth With Mould.

Earth And High Heaven Are Fixed Of Old And Founded Strong.

White In The Moon The Long Road Lies, The Moon Stands Blank Above; White In The Moon The Long Road Lies That Leads Me From My Love. Still Hangs The Hedge Without A Gust, Still, Still The Shadows Stay: My Feet Upon The Moonlit Dust Pursue The Ceaseless Way. The World Is Round, So Travellers Tell, And Straight Through Reach The Track, Trudge On, Trudge On, 'twill All Be Well, The Way Will Guide One Back. But Ere The Circle Homeward Hies Far, Far Must It Remove: White In The Moon The Long Road Lies That Leads Me From My Love.

Therefore, Since The World Has Still Much Good, But Much Less Good Than Ill