Duty were our games.

How does the meadow-flower its bloom unfold?<br>Because the lovely little flower is free<br>Down to its root$$$ and in that freedom bold.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways<br>Beside the springs of Dove$$$<br>A Maid whom there were none to praise<br>And very few to love:<br>A violet by a mossy stone<br>Half hidden from the eye!<br>Fair as a star$$$ when only one<br>Is shining in the sky.<br>She lived unknown$$$ and few could know<br>When Lucy ceased to be;<br>But she is in her grave$$$ and$$$ oh$$$<br>The difference to me!

This City now doth like a garment wear<br>The beauty of the morning; silent$$$ bare$$$<br>Ships$$$ towers$$$ domes$$$ theatres and temples lie<br>Open unto the fields and to the sky;<br>All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

But why do I notice everything? She thought. Why must I think? She did not want to think. She wanted to force her mind to become a blank and lie back$$$ and accept quietly$$$ tolerantly$$$ whatever came.

For it was not knowledge but unity that she desired$$$ not inscriptions on tablets$$$ nothing that could be written in any language known to men$$$ but intimacy itself$$$ which is knowledge.

All the being and the doing$$$ expansive$$$ glittering$$$ vocal$$$ evaporated; and one shrunk$$$ with a sense of solemnity$$$ to being oneself$$$ a wedge-shaped core of darkness$$$ something invisible to others.

To put it in a nutshell$$$ he was afflicted with a love of literature. It was the fatal nature of this disease to substitute a phantom for reality.

I was always going to the bookcase for another sip of the divine specific.

And the poem$$$ I think$$$ is only your voice speaking.