Love Has Earth To Which She Clings.

I Alone Of English Writers Have Consciously Set Myself To Make Music Out Of What I May Call The Sound Of Sense.

I Have Remained Resentful To This Day When Any But Myself Presumed To Say That There Was Anything I Couldn't Be.

The Trees That Have It In Their Pent-up Buds To Darken Nature And Be Summer Woods.

But I May Be One Who Does Not Care Ever To Have Tree Bloom Or Bear.

The Afternoon Knows What The Morning Never Suspected.