Tis Visible Silence, Still As The Hour-glass.

Tis Visible Silence, Still As The Hour-glass.

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

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.

Unto The Man Of Yearning Thought And Aspiration, To Do Nought Is In Itself Almost An Act.

Sudden Light I Have Been Here Before, But When Or How I Cannot Tell: I Know The Grass Beyond The Door, The Sweet Keen Smell, The Sighing Sound, The Light Around The Shore.