Looking upon the Eucharist that clips our heart.
The sole journey to the promise Land of thought,
Not as that which ended up in forty years.
But the one that has brought sorrow in laughter to our face.
...
Split the Lark—and you'll find the Music—
Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled—
Scantilly dealt to the Summer Morning
Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old.