Thou hadst, for weary feet, the gift of rest.

The after-silence, when the feast is o'er,And void the places where the minstrels stood,Differs in nought from what hath been before,And is nor ill nor good.

In this world with starry dome,Floored with gemlike plains and seas,Shall I never feel at home,Never wholly be at ease?

His friends he loved. His direst earthly foe - Cats-I believe he did but feign to hate. My hand will miss the insinuated nose, Mine eyes the tail that wagged contempt at Fate.

We hold our hate too choice a thing, for light and careless lavishing.

Threadbare his songs seem now, to lettered ken: They were worn threadbare next the hearts of men.

The thirst to know and understand a large and liberal discontent.