O For Ten Years, That I May

Where Soil Is, Men Grow, Whether To Weeds Or Flowers.

The Poetry Of The Earth Is Never Dead.

And How They Kist Each Other's Tremulous Eyes.

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

No Sooner Had I Stepp'd Into These Pleasures Than I Began To Think Of Rhymes And Measures: The Air That Floated By Me Seem'd To Say 'write! Thou Wilt Never Have A Better Day.