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

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

The years like great black oxen tread the world, and God, the herdsman goads them on behind, and I am broken by their passing feet.

When two close kindred meetWhat better than call a dance?

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.