to see a world in a grain of sand and a heaven in a wild flower. Hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour. The greatest poem ever known is one all poets have outgrown. The poetry innate untold of being only four years old. Barn Comrade of Birdbeast and Tree and unsouth conscious as the bee. Still young enough to be a part of nature's great impulsive heart. And yet with lovely reason-skilled, each day new paradise to build. The late explorer of each sense without dismay, without pretense. In your unstrained transparadise, there is no conscience, no surprise. Life's queer conundrums you accept. Your strange divinity still kept. And life that sets all things in rhyme may make you poet too in time. But there were days, O tender Elf, when you were poetry itself. You