O Aching Time! O Moments Big As

There Is A Budding Morrow In Midnight.

In A Drear-nighted December, Too Happy, Happy Tree, Thy Branches Ne'er Remember Their Green Felicity.

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?

We Read Fine Things But Never Feel Them To The Full Until We Have Gone The Same Steps As The Author.

They Swayed About Upon A Rocking Horse, And Thought It Pegasus.