O my love my dear lady The world is not very big There is only room for our wonder And the light leaning winds of heaven Are not more sweet or pure Than your mouth on my throat O my love there are larks in our morning And the finding flame of your hands And the moss on the bank of the river And the butterflies And the whirling-mad Butterflies!

Have you wondered why all the windows in heaven were broken? Have you seen the homeless in the grave of God's hand? Do you want to acquaint the larks with the …

As we are so wonderfully done with each other We can walk into our separate sleep on floors of music where the milkwhite cloak of childhood lies

But genius is an enormous littleness, a trickling Of heart that covers alike the hare and the hunter.