God is the perfect poet,Who in his person acts his own creations.

Strange secrets are let out by Death Who blabs so oft the follies of this world.

And gain is gain, however small.

Deeds let escape are never to be done.

The year's at the spring, And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hill-side's dew-pearl'd; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn; God's in His heaven— All's right with the world!

Rats!They fought the dogs and killed the cats,And bit the babies in the cradles,And ate the cheeses out of the vats,And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles,Split open the kegs of salted sprats,Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,And even spoiled the women's chatsBy drowning their speakingWith shrieking and squeakingIn fifty different sharps and flats.

Kiss me as if you made believe You were not sure, this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed It's petals up.

Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds?

Stung by the splendour of a sudden thought.

We loved, sir — used to meet:How sad and bad and mad it was —But then, how it was sweet!