Poets

Because on the branch that is tapping my pane    A sun-wakened leaf-bud, uncurled, Is bursting its rusty brown sheathing in twain,    I know there is Spring in the world.

Great god whom I shall carve from this gray stone    Wherein thou liest, hid to all but me, Grant thou that when my art hath made thee known    And others bow, I shall not worship thee.

'Leg over leg As the dog went to Dover; When he came to a stile, Jump he went over.'