Sometimes my feet are tired and my hands are quiet, but there is no quiet in my heart.

And the merry love the fiddle, and the merry love to dance.

Our own acts are isolated and one act does not buy absolution for another.

Everything exists, everything is true and the earth is just a bit of dust beneath our feet.

THAT crazed girl improvising her music. Her poetry, dancing upon the shore, Her soul in division from itself Climbing, falling She knew not where, Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship, Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing Heroically lost, heroically found. No matter what disaster occurred She stood in desperate music wound, Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph Where the bales and the baskets lay No common intelligible sound But sang, 'O sea-starved, hungry sea

O but we dreamed to mend Whatever mischief seemed To afflict mankind, but now That winds of winter blow Learn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed.

Too long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice?