But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?

A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.

And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.

The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration.

But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.

He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.