Who So Loves Believes The Impossible.

That Headlong Ivy! Not A Leaf Will Grow But Thinking Of A Wreath, . . . I Like Such Ivy; Bold To Leap A Height 'twas Strong To Climb! As Good To Grow On Graves As Twist About A Thyrsus; Pretty Too (and That's Not Ill) When Twisted Round A Comb.

I Love Thee With The Passion Put To Use In My Old Griefs, And With My Childhood's Faith. I Love Thee With A Love I Seemed To Lose With My Lost Saints,-i Love Thee With The Breath, Smiles, Tears, Of All My Life!-and, If God Choose, I Shall But Love Thee Better After Death.

There, That Is Our Secret: Go To Sleep! You Will Wake, And Remember, And Understand.

The Least Flower, With Brimming Cup, May Stand And Share Its Dew Drop With Another Near.

The Music Soars Within The Little Lark, And The Lark Soars.