Speak to Him, thou, for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet- Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.

Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone: And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown. For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky.

For this is England's greatest son, He that gain'd a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

The city is built To music, therefore never built at all, And therefore built forever.

I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.