Mud And Rain And Wretchedness And Blood.

Let My Soul, A Shining Tree, Silver Branches Lift Towards Thee, Where On A Hallowed Winter's Night The Clear-eyed Angels May Alight.

Who's This—alone With Stone And Sky? It's Only My Old Dog And I— It's Only Him; It's Only Me; Alone With Stone And Grass And Tree. What Share We Most—we Two Together? Smells, And Awareness Of The Weather. What Is It Makes Us More Than Dust? My Trust In Him; In Me His Trust.

In Me The Tiger Sniffs The Rose.

How Innocent Were These Trees, That In Mist-green May, Blown By A Prospering Breeze, Stood Garlanded And Gay; Who Now In Sundown Glow Of Serious Colour Clad Confront Me With Their Show As Though Resigned And Sad, Trees, Who Unwhispering Stand Umber, Bronze, Gold; Pavilioning The Land For One Grown Tired And Old; Elm, Chestnut, Aspen And Pine, I Am Merged In You, Who Tell Once More In Tones Of Time, Your Foliaged Farewell.

The Dead...are More Real Than The Living Because They Are Complete.