BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there.

Nor dread nor hope attend a dying animal; a man awaits his end dreading and hoping all.

I sat, a solitary man, In a crowded London shop, An open book and empty cup On the marble table-top. While on the shop and street I gazed My body of a sudden blazed; And twenty minutes more or less It seemed, so great my happiness, That I was blessed and could bless.

Swift has sailed into his rest; Savage indignation there Cannot lacerate his breast Imitate him if you dare, World-besotted traveler; he Served human liberty.

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

The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.

Love comes in at the eye.