For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

I gave what other women gave That stepped out of their clothes But when this soul, its body off Naked to naked goes, He it has found shall find therein What none other knows.

Talent perceives differences; genius, unity.

Everything that's lovely is But a brief, dreamy kind of delight.

Happiness is neither virtue nor pleasure nor this thing nor that but simply growth, We are happy when we are growing.

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. . . .

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