Of What I Call God, And Fools

Earth Changes, But Thy Soul And God Stand Sure.

Genius Has Somewhat Of The Infantine; But Of The Childish Not A Touch Or Taint.

All June I Bound The Rose In Sheaves, Now, Rose By Rose, I Strip The Leaves.

In The Morning Of The World, When Earth Was Nigher Heaven Than Now.

Stung By The Splendour Of A Sudden Thought.