Strange How Few, After Alls Said And

If Ever I Said In Grief Or Pride, I'd Tired Of Honest Things, I Lied.

It's Not Love's Going Hurts My Days But That It Went In Little Ways.

I Have Loved Badly, Loved The Great Too Soon, Withdrawn My Words Too Late; And Eaten In An Echoing Hall Alone And From A Chipped Plate The Words That I Withdrew Too Late.

Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare. Let All Who Prate Of Beauty Hold Their Peace, And Lay Them Prone Upon The Earth And Cease To Ponder On Themselves, The While They Stare At Nothing, Intricately Drawn Nowhere In Shapes Of Shifting Lineage; Let Geese Gabble And Hiss, But Heroes Seek Release From Dusty Bondage Into Luminous Air. O Blinding Hour, O Holy, Terrible Day, When First The Shaft Into His Vision Shone Of Light Anatomized! Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare. Fortunate They Who, Though Once Only And Then But Far Away, Have Heard Her Massive Sandal Set On Stone.

I Know What My Heart Is Like Since Your Love Died: It Is Like A Hollow Ledge Holding A Little Pool Left There By The Tide, A Little Tepid Pool, Drying Inward From The Edge.