Joy is of the will which labours, which overcomes obstacles, which knows triumph.

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.

Only God, my dear, Could love you for yourself alone And not your yellow hair.

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

The wind blows out of the gates of the day, The wind blows over the lonely of heart, And the lonely of heart is withered away.

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. . . .

I have grown to believe that there is no dangerous idea, which does not become less dangerous when written out in sincere and careful English.