"How divine is utterance!" she said. "As we to the brutes, poets are…

Into the breast that gives the rose, Shall I with shuddering fall?

It's past parsons to console us: No, nor no doctor fetch for me: I can die without my bolus; Two of a trade, lass, never agree! Parson and Doctor!--don't they love rarely Fighting the devil in other men's fields!

First of earthly singers, the sun-loved rill.

I've studied men from my topsy-turvy Close, and I reckon, rather true. Some are fine fellows: some, right scurvy; Most, a dash between the two.

See ye not, Courtesy Is the true Alchemy, Turning to gold all it touches and tries?

Earth, the mother of all, Moves on her stedfast way, Gathering, flinging, sowing. Mortals, we live in her day, She in her children is growing.