A pasty costly-made, Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and injellied.

And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain.

Too much wit makes the world rotten.

I can't sleep without knowing there's hope. Half the night I waste in sighs. In a wakeful doze I sorrow. For the hands, for the lips... the eyes. For the meeting of tomorrow.

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

Here at the quiet limit of the world.

A louse in the locks of literature.