Italy, my Italy! Queen Mary's saying serves for me (When fortune's malice Lost her Calais): "Open my heart, and you will see Graved inside of it 'Italy.'"

Oh, the little more, and how much it is! And the little less, and what worlds away.

I see my way as birds their trackless way. I shall arrive,- what time, what circuit first, I ask not; but unless God send his hail Or blinding fire-balls, sleet or stifling snow, In some time, his good time, I shall arrive: He guides me and the bird. In his good time.

And I have written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, And putting us to ignorance again.

I give the fight up: let there be an end, a privacy, an obscure nook for me. I want to be forgotten even by God.

No work begun shall ever pause for death.

Where the apple reddens never pry - lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I.