And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.

And ah for a man to arise in me, That the man I am may cease to be!

I hold it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things.

The white flower of a blameless life.

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.

Nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal; The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow speared by the shrike, And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey.

If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever.