I Half Wish That I Had Not

Late February Days; And Now, At Last, Might You Have Thought That Winter's Woe Was Past; So Fair The Sky Was And So Soft The Air.

Speak Not, Move Not, But Listen, The Sky Is Full Of Gold. No Ripple On The River, No Stir In Field Or Fold, All Gleams But Naught Doth Glisten, But The Far-off Unseen Sea. Forget Days Past, Heart Broken, Put All Memory By! No Grief On The Green Hillside, No Pity In The Sky, Joy That May Not Be Spoken Fills Mead And Flower And Tree.

To Happy Folkall Heaviest Words No More Of Meaning Bearthan Far-off Bells Saddening The Summer Air.

When Socialism Comes, It May Be In Such A Form That We Won't Like It.

It Is For Him That Is Lonely Or In Prison To Dream Of Fellowship, But For Him That Is Of A Fellowship To Do And Not To Dream.