Stately, kindly, lordly friend Condescend Here to sit by me.

The more congenial page of some tenth-rate poeticule worn out with failure after failure and now squat in his hole like the tailless fox, he is curled up to snarl and whimper beneath the inaccessible vine of song.

A baby's feet, like sea-shells pink Might tempt, should heaven see meet, An angel's lips to kiss, we think, A baby's feet.

Thou has conquered, O pale Galilean.

Who knows but on their sleep may rise Such light as never heaven let through To lighten earth from Paradise?

Sorrow, on wing through the world for ever, Here and there for awhile would borrow Rest, if rest might haply deliver Sorrow.

Yet leave me not; yet, if thou wilt, be free; love me no more, but love my love of thee.