Whatever flames upon the night Man's own resinous heart has fed.

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.

There is no deformity But saves us from a dream.

A line will take us hours maybe; Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Things said or done long years ago Or things I did not do or say But thought that I might say or do, Weigh me down, and not a day But something is recalled, My conscience or my vanity appalled.

I kiss you and kiss you, With arms around my own, Ah, how shall I miss you, When, dear, you have grown.