When two close kindred meetWhat better than call a dance?

How can we know the dancer from the dance?

I call on those that call me son,Grandson, or great-grandson,On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts,To judge what I have done.Have I, that put it into words,Spoilt what old loins have sent?

When we are young we long to tread a way none have trod before

Even when the poet seems most himself . . . he is never the bundle of accident and incoherence that sits down to breakfast; he has been reborn as an idea, something intended, complete.

I sigh that kiss you,For I must ownThat I shall miss youWhen you have grown.