An Hour's Terror Is Better Than A

All But Blind In His Chambered Hole Gropes For Worms The Four-clawed Mole.

A Face Peered. All The Grey Night In Chaos Of Vacancy Shone; Nought But Vast Sorrow Was There The Sweet Cheat Gone.

For Beauty With Sorrow Is A Burden Hard To Be Borne: The Evening Light On The Foam, And The Swans, There; That Music, Remote, Forlorn.

As Soon As They're Out Of Your Sight, You Are Out Of Their Mind.

Too Late For Fruit, Too Soon For Flowers.