The Wombat Is A Joy, A Triumph,

Her Hair That Lay Along Her Back Was Yellow Like Ripe Corn.

I Do Not See Them Here; But After Death God Knows I Know The Faces I Shall See, Each One A Murdered Self, With Low Last Breath. 'i Am Thyself,what Hast Thou Done To Me?' 'and Iand Ithyself,' (lo! Each One Saith,) 'and Thou Thyself To All Eternity!

I Am Not As These Are, The Poet Saithin Youth's Pride, And The Painter, Among Menat Bay, Where Never Pencil Comes Nor Pem

Unto The Man Of Yearning Thought And Aspiration, To Do Nought Is In Itself Almost An Act.

From Perfect Grief There Need Not Bewisdom Or Even Memory;one Thing Then Learned Remains To Me -the Woodspurge Has A Cup Of Three.