The Male Quality Is The Creative Gift.

I Say That We Are Wound With Mercy Round And Round As If With Air.

No Wonder Of It: Sheer Plod Makes Plough Down Sillion Shine, And Blue-bleak Embers, Ah My Dear, Fall, Gall Themselves, And Gash Gold-vermilion.

For Myself I Make No Secret, I Look Forward With Eager Desire To Seeing The Matchless Beauty Of Christ's Body In The Heavenly Light.

I Think That The Trivialness Of Life Is, And Personally To Each One, Ought To Be Seen To Be, Done Away With By The Incarnation.

Not, I’ll Not, Carrion Comfort, Despair, Not Feast On Thee; Not Untwist—slack They May Be—these Last Strands Of Man In Me ór, Most Weary, Cry I Can No More. I Can; Can Something, Hope, Wish Day Come, Not Choose Not To Be.