A translator ought to be faithful, but is not bound down to being literal.

The worst moment for the atheist is when he is really thankful and has nobody to thank.

Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been; I am also call'd No-more, Too-late, Farewell.

It is beautiful, the world, and life itself. I am glad I have lived.

And Love, our light at night and shade at noon,
Lulls us to rest with songs, and turns away
All shafts of shelterless tumultuous day.

Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.

I do not see them here; but after death God knows I know the faces I shall see, Each one a murdered self, with low last breath. 'I am thyself,what hast thou done to me?' 'And Iand Ithyself,' (lo! each one saith,) 'And thou thyself to all eternity!

The Wombat is a Joy, a Triumph, a Delight, a Madness!

Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragonfly

Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky.

This sunlight shames November where he grieves

In dead red leaves, and will not let him shun

The day, though bough with bough be overrun.

But with a blessing every glade receives

High salutation.

Can peace be gained until I clasp my wombat?

Deep in the sun searched growths, the dragonfly hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky.

I plucked a honeysuckle where The hedge on high is quick with thorn, And climbing for the prize, was torn, And fouled my feet in quag-water; And by the thorns and by the wind The blossom that I took was thinn'd, And yet I found it sweet and fair.

Unto the man of yearning thought And aspiration, to do nought Is in itself almost an act.

Tell me now in what hidden way isLady Flora the lovely Roman?Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais,Neither of them the fairer woman?Where is Echo, beheld of no man,Only heard on river and mere-She whose beauty was more than human?-But where are the snows of yester-year?

Give honour unto Luke Evangelist; For he it was (the aged legends say) Who first taught Art to fold her hands and pray.

Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky: So this winged hour is dropt to us from above. Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower, This close-companioned inarticulate hour When twofold silence was the song of love.

Her hair that lay along her back

Was yellow like ripe corn.

If God in his wisdom have brought closeThe day when I must die,That day by water or fire or airMy feet shall fall in the destined snareWherever my road may lie.

Conception, my boy, fundamental brain work, is what makes all the difference in art.