564 My period had come for Prayer— No other Art—would do— My Tactics missed a rudiment— Creator—Was it you?

547 I’ve seen a Dying Eye Run round and round a Room— In search of Something—as it seem… Then Cloudier become—

By homely gift and hindered Words The human heart is told Of Nothing - ‘Nothing’ is the force That renovates the World -

575 “Heaven” has different Signs—to m… Sometimes, I think that Noon Is but a symbol of the Place— And when again, at Dawn,

The pedigree of honey Does not concern the bee; A clover, any time, to him Is aristocracy.

XXXIV WHO never lost, are unprepared A coronet to find; Who never thirsted, flagons And cooling tamarind.

18 The Gentian weaves her fringes— The Maple’s loom is red— My departing blossoms Obviate parade.

Pink, small, and punctual, Aromatic, low, Covert in April, Candid in May, Dear to the moss,

For each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay In keen and quivering ratio To the ectasty. For each beloved hour

89 Some things that fly there be— Birds—Hours—the Bumblebee— Of these no Elegy. Some things that stay there be—

Who were “the Father and the Son” We pondered when a child, And what had they to do with us And when portentous told With inference appalling

215 What is – “Paradise” – Who live there – Are they “Farmers” – Do they “hoe” –