The chance is the remotest, Of its going much longer unnoticed, That I'm not keeping pace With the headlong human race

A person will sometimes devote all his life to the development of one part of his body - the wishbone.

Why make so much of fragmentary blue In here and there a bird, or butterfly, Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye, When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?

Our very life depends on everything's Recurring till we answer from within.

But strictly held by none, is loosely bound By countless silken ties of love and thought To everything on earth the compass round, And only by one's going slightly taut In the capriciousness of summer air Is of the slightest bondage made aware.

Style is that which indicates how the writer takes himself and what he is saying. It is the mind skating circles around itself as it moves forward.

The footpath down to the well is healed.