But Were There Ever Any Writhed Not

Much Have I Travell'd In The Realms Of Gold.

The Redbreast Whistles From A Garden-croft; And Gathering Swallows Twitter In The Skies.

Who, Of Men, Can Tell That Flowers Would Bloom, Or That Green Fruit Would Swell To Melting Pulp, That Fish Would Have Bright Mail, The Earth Its Dower Of River, Wood, And Vale, The Meadows Runnels, Runnels Pebble-stones, The Seed Its Harvest, Or The Lute Its Tones, Tones Ravishment, Or Ravishment Its Sweet, If Human Souls Did Never Kiss And Greet?

I Shall Soon Be Laid In The Quiet Grave - Thank God For The Quiet Grave

I Will Clamber Through The Clouds And Exist.