The way through the world is more difficult to find than the way beyond it.
The exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.
Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.
The reason can give nothing at all Like the response to desire.
Most modern reproducers of life, even including the camera, really repudiate it. We gulp down evil, choke at good.
At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.