It takes little talent to see what lies under one's nose, a good deal to know in what direction to point that organ.

I'll love you, dear, I'll love you till China and Africa meet and the river jumps over the mountain and the salmon sing in the street.

Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.

Lay your sleeping head, my love, Human on my faithless arm.

A shilling life will give you all the facts.

My face looks like a wedding-cake left out in the rain.

Warm are the still and lucky miles, White shores of longing stretch away, A light of recognition fills The whole great day, and bright The tiny world of lovers' arms. Silence invades the breathing wood Where drowsy limbs a treasure keep, Now greenly falls the learned shade Across the sleeping brows And stirs their secret to a smile. Restored! Returned! The lost are borne On seas of shipwreck home at last: See! In a fire of praising burns The dry dumb past, and we Our life-day long shall part no more.