The Worst Of Slaves Is

Love Is A Breach In The Walls, A Broken Gate, Love Sells The Proud Heart's Citadel To Fate.

One May Not Doubt That, Somehow Good Shall Come Of Water And Of Mud; And Sure, The Reverent Eye Must See A Purpose In Liquidity.

Breathless, We Flung Us On A Windy Hill, Laughed In The Sun, And Kissed The Lovely Grass.

And In That Heaven Of All Their Wish, There Shall Be No More Land, Say Fish

Hearts At Peace, Under An English Heaven.