Poetry, like love, is something we never truly say goodbye to.
What's the earth With all its art, verse, music, worth — Compared with love, found, gained, and kept?
Oh, to be in England now that April's there.
'Tis well averred, A scientific faith's absurd.
Out of your whole life give but a moment! All of your life that has gone before, All to come after it, -so you ignore, So you make perfect the present, condense, In a rapture of rage, for perfection's endowment, Thought and feeling and soul and sense.
Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure.