You call for faith: I show you doubt, to prove that faith exists. The more of doubt, the stronger faith, I say, If faith o'ercomes doubt.

Only I discern Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.

Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love.

When a man's busy, why leisure Strikes him as wonderful pleasure: 'Faith, and at leisure once is he? Straightway he wants to be busy.

Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.

Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!

Oh, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet. From the ripple to run over in its mirth