So bashful when I spied her!So pretty ― so ashamed!So hidden in her leafletsLest anybody find ―So breathless till I passed her ―So helpless when I turnedAnd bore her struggling, blushing,Her simple haunts beyond!For whom I robbed the Dingle ―For whom betrayed the Dell ―Many, will doubtless ask me,But I shall never tell!

Fame is a bee.It has a song -It has a sting -Ah, too, it has a wing.

The Babies we were are buried, and their shadows are plodding on.

The mere sense of living is joy enough.

He ate and drank the precious words,His spirit grew robust;He knew no more that he was poor,Nor that his frame was dust.He danced along the dingy days,And this bequest of wingsWas but a book. What libertyA loosened spirit brings!

The Poets light but Lamps-Themselves-go out-.