What were all the world's alarms To mighty Paris when he found Sleep upon a golden bed That first dawn in Helen's arms?

Everything we look upon is blest.

Now that my ladder's gone, I must lie down where all my ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.

No man has ever lived that had enough of children's gratitude or woman's love.

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

I have no question: It is enough, I know what fixed the station Of star and cloud. And knowing all, I cry. . . .

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