I know

The old Old winds that blew When chaos was, what do They tell the clattered trees that I Should weep?

Listen. With faint dry sound, Like steps of passing ghosts, The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees And fall.

These be Three silent things: The falling snow...the hour Before the dawn...the mouth of one Just dead.

My object to venture the suggestion that an important application of phonetics to metrical problems lies in the study of phonetic word-structure.

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held its way, And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes Upon the fast receding hills that dim and distant rise.

So All is diff’rent, and yet All is One.