Let the minor genius go his light way and enjoy his life - the great nature cannot so live, he is never really in holiday mood, even though he often plucks flowers by the wayside and ties them into knots and garlands like little children and lays out on a sunny morning.

If there's no hatred in a mind Assault and battery of the wind Can never tear the linnet from the leaf

If suffering brings wisdom, I would wish to be less wise.

When we have blamed the wind we can blame love.

I bring you with reverent hands The books of my numberless dreams.

I am content to live it all again And yet again, if it be life to pitch Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses The dim gray sands with light, Far off by furthest Rosses We foot it all the night, Weaving olden dances, Mingling hands and mingling glances Till the moon has taken flight; To and fro we leap And chase the frothy bubbles, While the world is full of troubles And is anxious in its sleep. . . .