Like a page of music, like an upper air, Like a momentary color, in which swans Were seraphs, were saints, were changing essences. The west wind was the music, the motion, the force To which the swans curveted, a will to change, A will to make iris frettings on the blank.

He tries by a peculiar speech to speak The peculiar potency of the general

The casual is not Enough. The freshness of transformation is The freshness of a world. It is our own, It is ourselves, the freshness of ourselves, And that nec…

Is there a poem that never reaches words And one that chaffers the time away? Is the poem both peculiar and general? There's a meditation there, in which there…

The ladies of St. James's! They're painted to the eyes; Their white it stays forever Their red it never dies: But Phillida, my Phillida! Her color comes and go…

First of earthly singers, the sun-loved rill.

...The tragedy of music is that it begins with perfection.