We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand; Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create.

The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy; Of old the world on dreaming fed Gray Truth is now her painted toy.

How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics?

What do we know but that we face one another in this place?

Consume my heart away, sick with desire And fastened to a dying animal It knows not what it is, and gather me Into the artifice of eternity.

Education is not filling

I pray-for fashion's word is out And prayer comes round again- That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.