L. Power

XLVIII. Desire.

Who never wanted, — maddest joy
Remains to him unknown:
The banquet of abstemiousness
Surpasses that of wine.

Within its hope, though yet ungrasped
Desire's perfect goal,
No nearer, lest reality
Should disenthrall thy soul.

XLIX. Philosophy.

It might be easier
To fail with land in sight,
Than gain my blue peninsula
To perish of delight.

You cannot put a fire out;
A thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a fan
Upon the slowest night.

You cannot fold a flood
And put it in a drawer, —
Because the winds would find it out,
And tell your cedar floor.