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

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

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.

O lyric Love, half angel and half bird. And all a wonder and a wild desire.

Each life unfulfilled, you see; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired,—been happy.

What joy is better than the news of friends?

Ignorance is not innocence but sin.