How Beautiful, If Sorrow Had Not Made

O Fret Not After Knowledge - I Have None, And Yet My Song Comes Native With The Warmth. O Fret Not After Knowledge - I Have None, And Yet The Evening Listens.

Ghosts Of Melodious Prophesyings Rave Round Every Spot Where Trod Apollo's Foot; Bronze Clarions Awake, And Faintly Bruit, Where Long Ago A Giant Battle Was; And, From The Turf, A Lullaby Doth Pass In Every Place Where Infant Orpheus Slept. Feel We These Things? - That Moment Have We Stept Into A Sort Of Oneness, And Our State Is Like A Floating Spirit's. But There Are Richer Entanglements, Enthralments Far More Self-destroying, Leading, By Degrees, To The Chief Intensity: The Crown Of These Is Made Of Love And Friendship, And Sits High Upon The Forehead Of Humanity.

I Should Write For The Mere Yearning And Fondness I Have For The Beautiful, Even If My Night's Labors Should Be Burnt Every Morning And No Eye Shine Upon Them.

A Little Noiseless Noise Among The Leaves, Born Of The Very Sigh That Silence Heaves.

I Must Choose Between Despair And Energy──i Choose The Latter.