If Nature put not forth her power About the opening of the flower, Who is it that could live an hour?

He is all fault who has no fault at all.

But what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.

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.

Words, like nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

The same words conceal and declare the thoughts of men.

Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades Forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life!