Strange how few, After alls said and done, the things that are Of moment.

Strange how few, After alls said and done, the things that are Of moment.

Beauty never slumbers; All is in her name; But the rose remembers The dust from which it came.

Beauty in all things-no, we cannot hope for that; but some place set apart for it.

For my omniscience paid I toll In infinite remorse of soul. All sin was of my sinning, all Atoning mine, and mine the gall Of all regret. Mine was the weight Of every brooded wrong, the hate That stood behind each envious thrust, Mine every greed, mine every lust. And all the while for every grief, Each suffering, I craved relief With individual desire, – Craved all in vain! And felt fierce fire About a thousand people crawl; Perished with each, — then mourned for all!

That which has quelled me, lives with me, Accomplice in catastrophe.

Beautiful as a dandelion-blossom, golden in the green grass, This life can be. Common as a dandelion-blossom, beautiful in the clean grass, not beautiful Because common, beautiful because beautiful, Noble because common, because free.