The weight of sadness was in wonder lost.
Golf is a day spent in a round of strenuous idleness.
Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.
But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?
The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.