God guard me from those thoughts men think In the mind alone.

I am content to live it all again And yet again, if it be life to pitch Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch.

The night can sweat with terror as before We pieced our thoughts into philosophy, And planned to bring the world under a rule, Who are but weasels fighting in a hole.

I have drunk ale from the Country of the Young / And weep because I know all things now.

What's memory but the ash That chokes our fires that have begun to sink?

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the deep heart's core.

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