All the wild-witches, those most notable ladies For all their broom-sticks and their tears, Their angry tears, are gone.

The brawling of a sparrow in the eaves The brilliant moon and all the milky sky And all that famous harmony of leaves Had blotted out man's image and his cry.

I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember

For Death who takes what man would keep, Leaves what man would lose.

I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.

Players and painted stage took all my love, And not those things that they were emblems of.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping...I hear it in the deep heart's core.