[T]his is a woman-ridden age. Yet it is but fair to confess that all…

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, …

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

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

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

Crowds of bees are giddy with clover Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet, Crowds of larks at their matins hang over, Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet.

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