In A Drear-nighted December, Too Happy, Happy

O Latest Born And Loveliest Vision Far Of All Olympus' Faded Hierarchy.

How I Like Claret!...it Fills One's Mouth With A Gushing Freshness, Then Goes Down To Cool And Feverless; Then, You Do Not Feel It Quarrelling With One's Liver. No; 'tis Rather A Peace-maker, And Lies As Quiet As It Did In The Grape. Then It Is As Fragrant As The Queen Bee, And The More Ethereal Part Mounts Into The Brain, Not Assaulting The Cerebral Apartments, Like A Bully Looking For His Trull, And Hurrying From Door To Door, Bouncing Against The Wainscott, But Rather Walks Like Aladdin About His Enchanted Palace, So Gently That You Do Not Feel His Step.

Poetry Should Be Great And Unobtrusive, A Thing Which Enters Into One's Soul, And Does Not Startle It Or Amaze It With Itself, But With Its Subject.

Where The Nightingale Doth Sing Not A Senseless, Tranced Thing, But Divine Melodious Truth.

Are There Not Thousands In The World Who Love Their Fellows Even To The Death, Who Feel The Giant Agony Of The World, And More, Like Slaves To Poor Humanity, Labor For Mortal Good?