Beauty Without The Beloved Is A Like

I Am Not As These Are, The Poet Saithin Youth's Pride, And The Painter, Among Menat Bay, Where Never Pencil Comes Nor Pem

Gather A Shell From The Strewn Beach And Listen At Its Lips: They Sigh The Same Desire And Mystery, The Echo Of The Whole Sea's Speech.

I Plucked A Honeysuckle Where The Hedge On High Is Quick With Thorn, And Climbing For The Prize, Was Torn, And Fouled My Feet In Quag-water; And By The Thorns And By The Wind The Blossom That I Took Was Thinn'd, And Yet I Found It Sweet And Fair.

This Sunlight Shames November Where He Grieves In Dead Red Leaves, And Will Not Let Him Shun The Day, Though Bough With Bough Be Overrun. But With A Blessing Every Glade Receives High Salutation.

Sometimes Thou Seem'st Not As Thyself Alone, But As The Meaning Of All Things That Are.