Oh, The Little Birds Sang

Souls Are Dangerous Things To Carry Straight Through All The Spilt Saltpetre Of This World.

And Lips Say “god Be Pitiful,” Who Ne'er Said “god Be Praised.”

His Ears Were Often The First Thing To Catch My Tears.

O Earth, So Full Of Dreary Noises! O Men, With Wailing In Your Voices! O Delved Gold, The Wader's Heap! O Strife, O Curse, That O'er It Fall! God Makes A Silence Through You All, And "giveth His Beloved, Sleep.

Unless You Can Muse In A Crowd All Day On The Absent Face That Fixed You; Unless You Can Love, As The Angels May, With The Breadth Of Heaven Betwixt You; Unless You Can Dream That His Faith Is Fast, Through Behoving And Unbehoving; Unless You Can Die When The Dream Is Past — Oh, Never Call It Loving!