To Know And Feel All This And

Poetry Is A Counterfeit Creation, And Makes Things That Are Not, As Though They Were

Be Thine Own Palace, Or The World's Thy Jail.

But He Who Loveliness Within Hath Found, All Outward Loathes, For He Who Color Loves, And Skin, Loves But Their Oldest Clothes.

Who Knows His Virtues Name Or Place, Hath None.

The Whole Life Of Christ Was A Continual Passion; Others Die Martyrs But Christ Was Born A Martyr. He Found A Golgotha Even In Bethlehem, Where He Was Born; For To His Tenderness Then The Straws Were Almost As Sharp As The Thorns After, And The Manger As Uneasy At First As His Cross At Last. His Birth And His Death Were But One Continual Act, And His Christmas Day And His Good Friday Are But The Evening And Morning Of One And The Same Day. And As Even His Birth Is His Death, So Every Action And Passage That Manifests Christ To Us Is His Birth, For Epiphany Is Manifestation.