So now I have sworn to bury All this dead body of hate I feel so free and so clear By the loss of that dead weight

Wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower.

Half the night I waste in sighs, Half in dreams I sorrow after The delight of early skies; In a wakeful dose I sorrow For the hand, the lips, the eyes, For the meeting of the morrow, The delight of happy laughter, The delight of low replies.

A louse in the locks of literature.

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.

Speak to Him, thou, for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet- Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.

Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.