If you get simple beauty and naught else, you get about the best thing God invents.

We mortals cross the ocean of this world Each in his average cabin of a life; The bests not big, the worst yields elbowroom.

Inscribe all human effort with one word, artistry's haunting curse, the Incomplete!

Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell!

On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven a perfect round.

Oh, to be in England now that April's there.

How well I know what I mean to do When the long dark Autumn evenings come, And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue? With the music of all thy voices, dumb In life’s November too! I shall be found by the fire, suppose, O’er a great wise book as beseemeth age, While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows, And I turn the page, and I turn the page, Not verse now, only prose!