go my songs, seek your praise from the young and the intolerant,
move among the lovers of perfection above
seek ever to stand in the hard Sophoclean light
and take your wounds from it gladly.
Erat Hora (from Personae, 1909)
“Thank you, whatever comes.” And then she turned
And, as the ray of sun on hanging flowers
Fades when the wind hath lifted them aside,
Went swiftly from me. Nay, whatever comes
One hour was sunlit and the most high gods
May not make boast of any better thing
Than to have watched that hour as it passed.
When I carefully consider the curious habits of dogs
I am compelled to conclude
That man is the superior animal.
When I consider the curious habits of man
I confess, my friend, I am puzzled.