What I Do Is Me,

Nothing Is So Beautiful As Spring - When Weeds, In Wheels, Shoot Long And Lovely And Lush; Thrush's Eggs Look Little Low Heavens, And Thrush Through The Echoing Timber Does So Rinse And Wring The Ear, It Strikes Like Lightning To Hear Him Sing.

Look At The Stars! Look, Look Up At The Skies! Oh Look At All The Fire-folk Sitting In The Air! The Bright Boroughs, The Circle-citadels There!

When We Hew Or Delve: After-comers Cannot Guess The Beauty Been.

It Kills Me To Be Time's Eunuch And Never To Beget.

I Thought How Sadly Beauty Of Inscape Was Unknown And Buried Away From Simple People And Yet How Near At Hand It Was If They Had Eyes To See It And It Could Be Called Out Everywhere Again.