On The Morning Of Christ's

A Thousand Fantasies Begin To Throng Into My Memory, Of Calling Shapes, And Beckoning Shadows Dire, And Airy Tongues That Syllable Men's Names On Sands And Shores And Desert Wildernesses

As Children Gath'ring Pebbles On The Shore. Or If I Would Delight My Private Hours With Music Or With Poem, Where So Soon As In Our Native Language Can I Find That Solace?

Time Will Run Back And Fetch The Age Of Gold.

Thrones, Dominions, Princedoms, Virtues, Powers-- If These Magnific Titles Yet Remain Not Merely Titular.

My Latest Found, Heaven's Last, Best Gift, My Ever New Delight!