Song is not Truth, not Wisdom, but the rose Upon Truths lips, the light in Wisdom's eyes.

A dreamer of the common dreams, A fisher in familiar streams, He chased the transitory gleams That all pursue; But on his lips the eternal themes Again were new.

Braying of arrogant brass, whimper of querulous reeds.

We hold our hate too choice a thing, for light and careless lavishing.

In this world with starry dome,Floored with gemlike plains and seas,Shall I never feel at home,Never wholly be at ease?

Threadbare his songs seem now, to lettered ken: They were worn threadbare next the hearts of men.

The thirst to know and understand a large and liberal discontent.