When We Hew Or Delve: After-comers Cannot

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.

Spring And Fall: To A Young Child Márgarét, Are You Gríeving Over Goldengrove Unleaving? Leáves, Líke The Things Of Man, You With Your Fresh Thoughts Care For, Can You? Ah! ás The Heart Grows Older It Will Come To Such Sights Colder By And By, Nor Spare A Sigh Though Worlds Of Wanwood Leafmeal Lie; And Yet You Wíll Weep And Know Why. Now No Matter, Child, The Name: Sórrow's Spríngs áre The Same. Nor Mouth Had, No Nor Mind, Expressed What Heart Heard Of, Ghost Guessed: It ís The Blight Man Was Born For, It Is Margaret You Mourn For.

And I Have Asked To Be Where No Storms Come, Where The Green Swell Is In The Havens Dumb, And Out Of The Swing Of The Sea.

I Have Desired To Go Where Springs Not Fail, To Fields Where Flies No Sharp And Sided Hail And A Few Lilies Blow.

I Find Myself Both As Man And As Myself Something More Determined And Distinctive, At Pitch, More Distinctive And Higher Pitched Than Anything Else I See.