Renunciation—is a piercing Virtue… The letting go A Presence—for an Expectation— Not now— The putting out of Eyes—

Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not. It has no future but itself,

Your Riches—taught me—Poverty. Myself—a Millionaire In little Wealths, as Girls could… Till broad as Buenos Ayre— You drifted your Dominions—

Part Five: The Single Hound XLIX The duties of the Wind are few— To cast the ships, at Sea, Establish March, the Floods escor…

927 Absent Place—an April Day— Daffodils a-blow Homesick curiosity To the Souls that snow—

883 The Poets light but Lamps— Themselves—go out— The Wicks they stimulate— If vital Light

122 A something in a summer’s Day As slow her flambeaux burn away Which solemnizes me. A something in a summer’s noon—

8 There is a word Which bears a sword Can pierce an armed man— It hurls its barbed syllables

Nature, the gentlest mother, Impatient of no child, The feeblest or the waywardest, Her admonition mild In forest and the hill

955 The Hollows round His eager Eyes Were Pages where to read Pathetic Histories—although Himself had not complained.