Is there never a chink in the world above

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.

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.

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.

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.