Hope and Memory have one daughter and her name is Art, and she has built her dwelling far from the desperate field where men hang out their garments upon forked boughs to be banners of battle. O beloved daughter of Hope and Memory, be with me for a while.

We can make our minds so like still water that beings gather about us that they may see, it may be, their own images, and so live for a moment with a clearer, perhaps even with a fiercer life because of our quiet.

The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.

And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone.

When I clamber to the heights of sleep, Or when I grow excited with wine, suddenly I meet your face.

It seems to me that love, if it is fine, is essentially a discipline.

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. . . .