Life Death All Does End And Each

What You Look At Hard Seems To Look At You.

Lovely The Woods, Waters, Meadows, Combes, Vales, All The Air Things Wear That Build This World Of Wales.

Beauty Is A Relation, And The Apprehension Of It A Comparison.

Birds Buildbut Not I Build; No, But Strain, Time's Eunuch, And Not Breed One Work That Wakes. Mine,o Thou Lord Of Life, Send My Roots Rain.

That Piecemeal Peace Is Poor Peace. What Pure Peace Allows Alarms Of Wars, The Daunting Wars, The Death Of It?