I Am Never Going To Write For

No Man Had Ever Heard A Nightingale, When Once A Keen-eyed Naturalist Was Stirred To Study And Define -- What Is A Bird.

There Is No Comfort Looking Forth Nor Back, The Present Gives The Lie To All Her Past.

Still Ours The Dance, The Feast, The Glorious Psalm, The Mystic Lights Of Emblem, And The Word.

I Seem To Have Always One Little Window Looking But Into Life.

Thick February Mists Cling Heavily To The Dead Earth And To Each Leafless Tree, And Closer Down Upon The Hilltops Draw, Dull Forecasts There Of Bright, Sure-coming Spring; Yet The Heart Gathers Hope And Strange Delight From This Dear, Unlovely, Wished-for Sight Of Leaden-misted Twilights Lengthening.