Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven.
As is your sort of mind, So is your sort of search: You will find what you desire.
Stung by the splendour of a sudden thought.
Oh, to be in England now that April's there.
The common problem, yours, mine, everyone's Is ? not to fancy what were fair in life Provided it could be ? but, finding first What may be, then find how to make it fair Up to our means.
My sun sets to rise again.