The cry of my body for completeness. That is a cry to you.
We are made whole by books, as by great space and the stars.
A good dog never dies.
The talking oak To the ancient spoke. But any tree Will talk to me.
Where weary folk toil, black with smoke, And hear but whistles scream, I went, all fresh from dawn and dew To carry them a dream. I went to bitter lanes and dark, Who once had known the sky, To carry them a dream-and found They had more dreams than I.
May I forget what ought to be forgotten; and recall, unfailing, all that ought to be recalled, each kindly thing, forgetting what might sting.