To me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth.

Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.

That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.

As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.

I have led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none, And never yet so warmly ran my blood, And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wished for end, Full to the banks, close on the prom- ised good.

We are ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times.

On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God, Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption.