Even Bees, The Little Almsmen Of Spring

Some Say The World Is A Vale Of Tears, I Say It Is A Place Of Soul-making.

She Hurried At His Words, Beset With Fears, For There Were Sleeping Dragons All Around.

Dance And Provencal Song And Sunburnt Mirth! On For A Beaker Full Of The Warm South, Full Of The True, The Blushful Hippocrene! With Beaded Bubbles Winking At The Brim, And Purple-stained Mouth.

Thou Wast Not Born For Death, Immortal Bird! No Hungry Generations Tread Thee Down; The Voice I Hear This Passing Night Was Heard In Ancient Days By Emperor And Clown.

Do You Not See How Necessary A World Of Pains And Troubles Is To School An Intelligence And Make It A Soul?