It Is Beautiful, The World,

The Sea Hath No King But God Alone.

So Spring Comes Merry Towards Me Here, But Earns No Answering Smile From Me, Whose Life Is Twin'd With The Dead Boughs That Winter Still Must Bind, And Whom Today The Spring No More Concerns. Behold, This Crocus Is A Withering Flame; This Snowdrop, Snow; This Apple-blossom's Part To Breed The Fruit That Breeds The Serpent's Art. Nay, For These Spring-flowers, Turn Thy Face From Them, Nor Stay Till On The Year's Last Lily-stem The White Cup Shrivels Round The Golden Heart.

Was It A Friend Or Foe That Spread These Lies; Nay, Who But Infants Question In Such Wise, Twas One Of My Most Intimate Enemies.

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

Deep In The Sun-searched Growths The Dragon-fly Hangs Like A Blue Thread Loosened From The Sky: So This Winged Hour Is Dropt To Us From Above. Oh! Clasp We To Our Hearts, For Deathless Dower, This Close-companioned Inarticulate Hour When Twofold Silence Was The Song Of Love.