The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remembered to have been Joyful and free from blame.

Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster.

The woman is so hard Upon the woman.

The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself.

It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round.

But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.