When I Was Quite A Boy I

There Is Nothing The Body Suffers Which The Soul May Not Profit By.

For Singing Till His Heaven Fills, 'tis Love Of Earth That He Instills, And Ever Winging Up And Up, Our Valley Is His Golden Cup, And He The Wine Which Over Flows To Lift Us With Him As He Goes.

Friendship, I Fancy, Means One Heart Between Two.

Lowly, With A Broken Neck, The Crocus Lays Her Cheek To Mire.

As We To The Brutes, Poets Are To Us.