Parading

The poem, the bridge, the circuit, the cure

Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace,

You may bury my body in Sussex grass,

Where Liberty has lodged an hour

I was not preparing to be busy.

Dinner party

But the year had lost its meaning,

Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself,

But no one could say what the nightmare meant,

That world we want is Us; united, already moving