The Roaring Of The Wind

Who, Of Men, Can Tell That Flowers Would Bloom, Or That Green Fruit Would Swell To Melting Pulp, That Fish Would Have Bright Mail, The Earth Its Dower Of River, Wood, And Vale, The Meadows Runnels, Runnels Pebble-stones, The Seed Its Harvest, Or The Lute Its Tones, Tones Ravishment, Or Ravishment Its Sweet, If Human Souls Did Never Kiss And Greet?

You Cannot Conceive How I Ache To Be With You: How I Would Die For One Hour.

Call The World If You Please "the Vale Of Soul-making." Then You Will Find Out The Use Of The World.

A Drainless Shower Of Light Is Poesy: 'tis The Supreme Of Power; 'tis Might Half Slumbering On Its Own Right Arm.

O Latest Born And Loveliest Vision Far Of All Olympus' Faded Hierarchy.