lies not in forward-looking 
             thoughts; 
         Flower-gathering 
             nor yet in any spur it may be to ambition. 
         Rose  Pogonias 
             He is no dissenter from the ritualism of 
nature; 
         Asking  for  Roses 
             nor from the ritualism of youth which is
make-believe. 
         Waiting--Afield  at  Dusk 
             He  arrives  at  the  turn  of  the  year. 
         In  a  Vale 
             Out of old longings he fashions a story. 
         A  Dream  Pang 
             He is shown by a dream how really well 
it is with him. 
         In  Neglect 
             He is scornful of folk his scorn cannot 
reach. 
         The  Vantage  Point 
             And again scornful, but there is no one 
hurt. 
         Mowing 
             He takes up life simply with the small 
tasks. 
  
Going for Water
Part II 
Revelation 
             He resolves to become intelligible, at 
least to himself, since there 
             is  no  help  else; 
         The  Trial  by  Existence 
             and  to  know  definitely  what  he  thinks 
about the soul; 
         In  Equal  Sacrifice 
             about  love; 
         The  Tuft  of  Flowers 
             about  fellowship; 
         Spoils  of  the  Dead 
             about  death; 
         Pan  with  Us 
             about  art  (his  own); 
         The  Demiurge's  Laugh 
             about  science. 
  
Part III 
Now Close the Windows
It is time to make an end of speaking.
A Line-storm Song 
It is the autumnal mood with a difference.
October 
             He sees days slipping from him that were 
the best for what they 
             were. 
         My  Butterfly 
             There are things that can never be the 
same. 
  
Reluctance 
Into My Own 
ONE of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they 
scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of 
gloom,
But stretched away unto the edge of doom.
I should not be 
withheld but that some day
Into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel 
pours the sand.
I do not see why I should e'er turn back,
Or those 
should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who should miss 
me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.
They would not 
find me changed from him they knew--
Only    
    
		
	
	
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