All June I bound the rose in sheaves, Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves.

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

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

The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung To their first fault, and withered in their pride.

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!

There are those who believe something, and therefore will tolerate nothing; and on the other hand, those who tolerate everything, because they believe nothing.

Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!