What can I but enumerate old themes?

The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away.

From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged / In rambling talk with an image of air: / Vague memories, nothing but memories.

The true faith discovered was When painted panel, statuary, Glass-mosaic, window-glass, Amended what was told awry By some peasant gospeler.

In dreams begin responsibilitiy.

A pity beyond all telling is hid in the heart of love.

It's certain there are trout somewhere - And maybe I shall take a trout - but I do not seem to care.