“You have played, (I think) And broke the toys you were fondest of, And are a little tired now; Tired of things that break, and— Just tired. So am I.”

“You are tired,(I think)Of the always puzzle of living and doing;And so am I.Come with me, then,And we’ll leave it far and far away—(Only you and I, understand!)You have played,(I think)And broke the toys you were fondest of,And are a little tired now;Tired of things that break, and—Just tired.So am I.But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—Open to me!For I will show you the places Nobody knows,And, if you like,The perfect places of Sleep.Ah, come with me!I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,That floats forever and a day;I’ll sing you the jacinth songOf the probable stars;I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,Until I find the Only Flower,Which shall keep (I think) your little heartWhile the moon comes out of the sea.”

“I was too tired to think. I merely felt the town as a unique unreality. What was it? I knew -- the moon's picture of a town. These streets with their houses did not exist, they were but a ludicrous projection of the moon's sumptuous personality. This was a city of Pretend, created by the hypnotism of moonnight. -- Yet when I examined the moon she too seemed but a painting of a moon and the sky in which she lived a fragile echo of color. If I blew hard the whole shy mechanism would collapse gently with a neat soundless crash. I must not, or lose all.”

“And now you are and I am and we're a mystery which will never happen again.”

“If"If freckles were lovely, and day was night, And measles were nice and a lie warn't a lie, Life would be delight,-- But things couldn't go right For in such a sad plight I wouldn't be I. If earth was heaven and now was hence, And past was present, and false was true, There might be some sense But I'd be in suspense For on such a pretense You wouldn't be you. If fear was plucky, and globes were square, And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee Things would seem fair,-- Yet they'd all despair, For if here was there We wouldn't be we.”

“you said Isthere anything whichis dead or alive more beautifulthan my body,to have in your fingers(trembling ever so little)?Looking intoyour eyes Nothing,i said,except theair of spring smelling of never and forever.....and through the lattice which moved asif a hand is touched by ahand(whichmoved as thoughfingers touch a girl'sbreast,lightly)Do you believe in always,the windsaid to the rainI am too busy withmy flowers to believe,the rain answered”

“i am a little church(no great cathedral)far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities--i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,i am not sorry when sun and rain make aprilmy life is the life of the reaper and the sower;my prayers are prayers of earth's own clumsily striving(finding and losing and laughing and crying)childrenwhose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladnessaround me surges a miracle of unceasingbirth and glory and death and resurrection:over my sleeping self float flaming symbolsof hope,and i wake to a perfect patience of mountainsi am a little church(far from the franticworld with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature--i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;i am not sorry when silence becomes singingwinter by spring,i lift my diminutive spire tomerciful Him Whose only now is forever:standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)”