And Chaucer, With His Infantine Familiar Clasp

The Least Flower, With Brimming Cup, May Stand And Share Its Dew Drop With Another Near.

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

O Death, O Beyond, Thou Art Sweet, Thou Art Strange!

Earth's Crammed With Heaven.

I F Thou Must Love Me, Let It Be For Nought Except For Love's Sake Only. Do Not Say, I Love Her For Her Smile ... Her Look ... Her Way Of Speaking Gently ... For A Trick Of Thought That Falls In Well With Mine, And, Certes, Brought A Sense Of Pleasant Ease On Such A Day- For These Things In Themselves, Beloved, May Be Changed, Or Change For Thee-and Love So Wrought, May Be Unwrought So.