Crowds of bees are giddy with clover

And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

Let me be only sure; for sooth to tell The sorest dole is doubt.

Is there never a chink in the world above Where they listen for words from below?

The while He sits whose name is Love, And waits, as Noah did, for the dove, To wit if she would fly to him.He waits for us, while, houseless things, We beat about with bruised wings On the dark floods and water-springs, The ruined world, …

But two are walking apart forever And wave their hands for a mute farewell.

Man dwells apart, though not alone, He walks among his peers unread; The best of thoughts which he hath known, For lack of listeners are not said.