Tis Visible Silence, Still As The Hour-glass.

Still We Say As We Go,-"strange To Think By The Waywhatever There Is To Know,that Shall We Know One Day.

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

From Perfect Grief There Need Not Bewisdom Or Even Memory;one Thing Then Learned Remains To Me -the Woodspurge Has A Cup Of Three.

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