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

Somewhere beyond the curtain Of distorting days Lives that lonely thing That shone before these eyes Targeted, trod like Spring.

And many a poor man that has roved Loved and thought himself beloved From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.

Many times man lives and dies between his two eternities: that of race and that of Soul... A brief parting from those dear is the worst man has to fear... Though grave diggers' toil is long... They but thrust their buried men back in the human mind again.

Many ingenious lovely things are gone / That seemed sheer miracle to the multitude.

Hearts with one purpose alone/Through summer and winter seem/Enchanted to a stone/To trouble the living stream.

And I will find some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,/ Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings.