Death Is Life's High Meed.

There's A Blush For Won't, And A Blush For Shan't, And A Blush For Having Done It: There's A Blush For Thought And A Blush For Naught, And A Blush For Just Begun It.

But Were There Ever Any Writhed Not At Passed Joy?

Through The Dancing Poppies Stole A Breeze, Most Softly Lulling To My Soul.

The Poetry Of The Earth Is Never Dead.

... For, By All The Stars That Tend Thy Bidding, I Do Think The Bars That Kept My Spirit In Are Burst - That I Am Sailing With Thee Through The Dizzy Sky! How Beautiful Thou Art!