What I do and what I dream include thee, as the wine must taste of its own grapes.

Our Euripides the human, With his droppings of warm tears, and his touchings of things common Till they rose to meet the spheres.

And is it not the chief good of money, the being free from the need of thinking of it?

The Holy Night We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem; The dumb kine from their fodder turning them, Softened their horned faces To almost human gazes Toward the newly Born: The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks Brought visionary looks, As yet in their astonied hearing rung The strange sweet angel-tongue: The magi of the East, in sandals worn, Knelt reverent, sweeping round, With long pale beards, their gifts upon the ground, The incense, myrrh, and gold These baby hands were impotent to hold: So let all earthlies and celestials wait Upon thy royal state. Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!

Most illogical Irrational nature of our womanhood, That blushes one way, feels another way, And prays, perhaps another!

Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love. Yet love me--wilt thou? Open thine heart wide, And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove.

He's just, your cousin, ay, abhorrently, He'd wash his hands in blood, to keep them clean.