If You Get Simple Beauty

The Only Fault's With Time; All Men Become Good Creatures: But So Slow!

Oh, The Little More, And How Much It Is! And The Little Less, And What Worlds Away.

Kiss Me As If You Made Believe You Were Not Sure This Eve, How My Face, Your Flower, Had Pursed It's Petals Up.

Generations Pass While Some Tree Stands, And Old Families Last Not Three Oaks.

I Want To Know A Butcher Paints, A Baker Rhymes For His Pursuit, Candlestick-maker Much Acquaints His Soul With Song, Or, Haply Mute, Blows Out His Brains Upon The Flute.