Like a dog, he hunts in dreams.
Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.
Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool.
Sweet is every sound, sweeter the voice, but every sound is sweet.
I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men.
All Life needs for life is possible to will.