The rain to the wind said, You push and I'll pelt.' They so smote the garden bed That the flowers actually knelt, And lay lodged - though not dead. I know how the flowers felt.

The child ever dwells in the mystery of ageless time, unobscured by the dust of history.

Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart.

You can't get too much winter in the winter.

Two such as you with such a master speed,Cannot be parted nor be swept away.