In the history of the human spirit, 

miracles do not happen

and, 

Nature herself seems, I say, to take the pen

out of his hand, 

and to write for him with her own bare,

sheer, 

penetrating power. 

The pursuit of perfection is this not simply morality but morality touched by emotion. 

In poetry, 

no less in life, 

he is a beautiful and ineffectual angel, 

beating in the void his 

luminous wings in vain; 

passionate, 

absorbing,

almost blood thirsty clinging to life;

beautiful. 

Now dismal those who have seen them will remember, 

the gloom, 

the cold, 

the strangled illegitimate child; 

and the final touch, 

short, 

bleak, 

and inhuman. 

The footless prompt to meet the morning dew, 

the heartless pounding at emotion new, 

and hope, 

once crushed, 

less quick to spring again. 

I am bound by my own definition of criticism, 

a disinterested endeavor 

to learn and propagate the best that is known, 

and thought in the world. 



-an original poem