In My Song You Catch At Times

Falling Stars Are High Examples Sent To Warn, Not Lure. Gross Fancy Says They Are Substantial Meteors; But That Is Not So. They Are The Merest Phantasies Of Night, When She's Asleep, And, Dimly Visited By Past Effects, She Dreams Of Lucifer Hurled Out Of Heaven.

If Nature Built By Rule And Square, Than Man What Wiser Would She Be? What Wins Us Is Her Careless Care, And Sweet Unpunctuality.

Never Did Form More Fairy Thread The Dance Than She Who Scours The Hills To Find It Flowers; Never Did Sweeter Lips Chained Ears Entrance Than Hers That Move, True To Its Striking Hours; No Hands So White E'er Decked The Warrior's Lance, As Those Which Tend Its Lamp As Darkness Lours; And Never Since Dear Christ Expired For Man, Had Holy Shrine So Fair A Sacristan.

We Are All Alike, And We Love To Keep Passion Aglow At Our Feet, Like One That Sitteth In Shade And Complacently Smiles At The Heat.

Through The Dripping Weeks That Follow One Another Slow, And Soak Summer's Extinguished Fire And Autumn's Drifting Smoke.