Where Soil Is, Men Grow,

Wine Is Only Sweet To Happy Men.

I Cannot See What Flowers Are At My Feet, Nor What Soft Incense Hangs Upon The Boughs, But, In Embalmed Darkness, Guess Each Sweet.

The Feel Of Not To Feel It, When There Is None To Heal It Nor Numbed Sense To Steel It.

O For The Gentleness Of Old Romance, The Simple Planning Of A Minstrel's Song!

His Religion At Best Is An Anxious Wish,-like That Of Rabelais, A Great Perhaps.