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.

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

I alone of English writers have consciously set myself to make music out of what I may call the sound of sense.

I hope to leave behind a few poems it will be hard to get rid of.