If soul my look and body touch, Which is the more blest?

The unpurged images of day recede; The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed; Night resonance recedes, night-walkers' song After great cathedral gong.

But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

If suffering brings wisdom, I would wish to be less wise.

The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.

How but in custom and in ceremony are innocence and beauty born?

I would have touched it like a child But knew my finger could but have touched Cold stone and water. I grew wild, Even accusing heaven because It had set down among its laws: Nothing that we love over-much Is ponderable to our touch.