Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west.
For 'Tis not in mere death that men die most.
This race is never grateful: from the first, One fills their cup at supper with pure wine, Which back they give at cross-time on a sponge, In bitter vinegar.
And Chaucer, with his infantine Familiar clasp of things divine.
But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence than the strong man in his wrath!
But since he had The genius to be loved, why let him have The justice to be honoured in his grave.