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Though one were fair as roses His beauty clouds and closes.
Those eyes the greenest of things blue The bluest of things grey.
The thorns he spares when the rose is taken; The rocks are left when he wastes the plain; The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken, These remain.
The tadpole poet will never grow into anything bigger than a frog; not though in that stage of development he should puff and blow himself till he bursts with windy adulation at the heels of the laureled ox.
The sweetest flowers in all the world- A baby's hands.
The more congenial page of some tenth-rate poeticule worn out with failure after failure and now squat in his hole like the tailless fox, he is curled up to snarl and whimper beneath the inaccessible vine of song.
Stately, kindly, lordly friend Condescend Here to sit by me.
Our way is where God knows And Love knows where: We are in Love's hand to-day.
Not with dreams, but with blood and with iron, Shall a nation be moulded at last.
My loss may shine yet goodlier than your gain When Time and God give judgment.
