Slå rot som et tre og la din ånd være som fuglen som bygger sitt rede i dets krone. Husk at du er et menske og at jorden er din plikt.

Was there a summer ?

I had loved her for a year or more...
Had loved her with such delighted certainty 
That I wrote her letters and poems
The letter were not sent-save one
They lay in piles, quivering with their own 
life in my desk.
At the end of a year I send her one;
I said "this poem of yours which has 
just appeared..."
I said it dosen`t matter
I tried to be coolly restrained,
Just an appreciative member of the public
Writing to an author about this poem
But I know (though she had never seen me)
I know that the poem has been written for...
Yes, though the trees in Monserrate gardens
Shroug tired shoulders
Though the mist lies blue beneath their 
rounded tolerant shoulders.
I know that this was my Lady
It is hard to be here and write
Remembering those days;
Hard to sit on a small green chair,
And see myself one of that timeless
stream of man...

Alt har sin tid !

Vår herre har flere enn oss å fø på...