The Past Is Gained, Secure, And On

Oh, To Be In England Now That April's There, And Whoever Wakes In England Sees, Some Morning, Unaware.

Dear, Dead Women, With Such Hair, Too--what's Become Of All The Gold Used To Hang And Brush Their Bosoms?

Where The Apple Reddens Never Pry - Lest We Lose Our Edens, Eve And I.

Just For A Handful Of Silver He Left Us, Just For A Riband To Stick In His Coat.

All Poetry Is Putting The Infinite Within The Finite.