Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult.

I pray-for fashion's word is out And prayer comes round again- That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.

Life moves out of a red flare of dreams Into a common light of common hours, Until old age brings the red flare again.

There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven't yet met.

Test every work of intellect or faith and everything that your own hands have wrought.

We had fed the heart on fantasies, The heart's grown brutal from the fare, More substance in our enmities Than in our love

And the merry love the fiddle, and the merry love to dance.