The Busy Heart

    I would fill my mind with thoughts that will not rend¹.

    （O heart， I do not dare go empty-hearted）

    I'll think of Love in books， Love without end；

    Women with child， content； and old men sleeping；

    And wet strong ploughlands， scarred² for certain grain；

    And babes that weep， and so forget their weeping；

    And the young heavens， forgetful after rain；

    And evening hush³， broken by homing wings；

    And Song's nobility， and Wisdom holy，

    That live， we dead. I would think of a thousand things，

    Lovely and durable⁴， and taste them slowly，

    One after one， like tasting a sweet food.

    I have need to busy my heart with quietude.