And So We Plough Along, As The

I Do Not Love Thee Less For What Is Done, And Cannot Be Undone. Thy Very Weakness Hath Brought Thee Nearer To Me, And Henceforth My Love Will Have A Sense Of Pity In It, Making It Less A Worship Than Before.

White Swan Of Cities Slumbering In Thy Nest . . . White Phantom City, Whose Untrodden Streets Are Rivers, And Whose Pavements Are The Shifting Shadows Of The Palaces And Strips Of Sky.

What Child Has A Heart To Sing In This Capricious Clime Of Ours, When Spring Comes Sailing In From The Sea, With Wet And Heavy Cloud-sails And The Misty Pennon Of The East-wind Nailed To The Mast.

Whenever Nature Leaves A Hole In A Person's Mind, She Generally Plasters It Over With A Thick Coat Of Self-conceit.

It Is The Harvest Moon! On Gilded Vanes And Roofs Of Villages, On Woodland Crests And Their Aerial Neighborhoods Of Nests Deserted, On The Curtained Window-panes Of Rooms Where Children Sleep, On Country Lanes And Harvest-fields, Its Mystic Splendor Rests.