The wind sounds like a silver wire, And from beyond the noon a fire Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher The skies stoop down in their desire; And, isled in sudden seas of light, My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight, Bursts into blossom in his sight.

Man is the hunter; women are the game; those sleek and shining creatures of the chase. We hunt them for the beauty of their skins; they love us for it, and we ride them down.

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new, That which they have done but earnest of the things which they shall do.

All experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untravelled world whose margin fades for ever and for ever when I move.

But the churchmen fain would kill their church, As the churches have kill'd their Christ.

Never, oh! never, nothing will die; The stream flows, The wind blows, The cloud fleets, The heart beats, Nothing will die.

It is unconceivable that the whole Universe was merely created for us who live in this third-rate planet of a third-rate moon.