I consider my selfbeing ... that taste of myself, of I and me above and in all things, which is more distinctive than the taste of ale or alum, more distinctive than the smell of walnutleaf or camphor, and is incommunicable by any means to another man.

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours, O what black hours we have spent This night!

Nothing is so beautiful as spring- When weeds in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush.

What is all this juice and all this joy?

Searching nature I taste self but at one tankard, that of my own being.

For Christ plays in ten thousand places,/ Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his/ To the Father through the features of men’s faces.

ELECTED Silence, sing to me And beat upon my whorlèd ear, Pipe me to pastures still and be The music that I care to hear.