There grows No herb of help to heal a coward heart.

From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.

His life is a watch or a vision Between a sleep and a sleep.

To say of shame - what is it? Of virtue - we can miss it; Of sin-we can kiss it, And it's no longer sin.

There lived a singer in France of old By the tideless dolorous midland sea. In a land of sand and rain and gold There shone one woman, and none but she.

Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

Hope knows not if fear speaks truth, nor fear whether hope be blind as she.