And yet, because I love thee, I obtain From that same love this vindicating grace, To live on still in love, and yet in vain

In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by! And if before the days grew rough We once were lov'd, us'd -- well enough, I think, we've far'd, my heart and I.

There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o' the world; oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time!

There, that is our secret: go to sleep! You will wake, and remember, and understand.

Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west.

And Chaucer, with his infantine Familiar clasp of things divine.

The world's male chivalry has perished out, but women are knights-errant to the last; and, if Cervantes had been greater still, he had made his Don a Donna.