The moving moon went up to the sky, And nowhere did abide; Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside.

The moving moon went up the sky, / And nowhere did abide: / Softly she was going up, / And a star or two beside.

A savage place! as holy and enchanted / As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted / By woman wailing for her demon lover!

Poetry: the best words in the best order.

I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry; that is, prose = words in their best order; poetry = the best words in the best order

If a man could pass through Paradise in a dream, and have a flower presented to him as a pledge that his soul had really been there, and if he found that flower in his hand when he awake - Aye, what then?