Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.
The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
Whether we be young or old,Our destiny, our being's heart and home,Is with infinitude, and only there;With hope it is, hope that can never die,Effort and expectation, and desire,And something evermore about to be.
The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.
Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.
There is creation in the eye.