And my lament / Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent / To dearest him that lives alas! away.

All Life death does end and each day dies with sleep

I caught this morning morning's minion, kingdom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon.

There lives the dearest freshness deep down things . . . ,

This piece-bright paling shuts the spouse / Christ home, Christ and his mother and all his hallows.

That night, that year / Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

O if we but knew what we do when we delve or hew -- hack and rack the growing green! Since country is so tender to touch, her being so slender, that like this sleek and seeing ball but a prick will make no eye at all, where we, even where we mean to mend her we end her, when we hew or delve: after-comers cannot guess the beauty been.

A few other little things; some in sprung rhythm, with various other experiments.

O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall / Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap / May who ne'er hung there.

O then if in my lagging lines you miss / The roll, the rise, the carol, the creation.