The critics could never mortify me out of heart - because I love poetry for its own sake, - and, tho' with no stoicism and some ambition, care more for my poems than for my poetic reputation.

And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness; Round our restlessness, His rest.

May the good God pardon all good men.

My sun sets to raise again.

Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dispossessed. But blessed are those among nations who dare to be strong for the rest!

Enough! we're tired, my heart and I. We sit beside the headstone thus, And wish that name were carved for us. The moss reprints more tenderly The hard types of the mason's knife, As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life With which we're tired, my heart and I .... 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 loved, used, - well enough, I think, we've fared, my heart and I.

Large, musing eyes, neither joyous nor sorry.