He Guides Me And The Bird. In

Man Seeks His Own Good At The Whole World's Cost.

Mid The Sharp, Short Emerald Wheat, Scarce Risen Three Fingers Well, The Wild Tulip At The End Of Its Tube, Blows Out Its Great Red Bell, Like A Thin Clear Bubble Of Blood, For The Children To Pick And Sell.

Imperfection Means Perfection Hid.

And I Have Written Three Books On The Soul, Proving Absurd All Written Hitherto, And Putting Us To Ignorance Again.

It Was Roses, Roses, All The Way, With Myrtle Mixed In My Path Like Mad.