Do you remember the Song of Conn the Fool? Wandering Aengus is another just such person. He too would pluck the "silver apples of the moon". How he would like Conn's moon tree!
 

I  WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head, 
And cut and peeled a hazel wand, 
And hooked a berry to a thread; 
And when white moths were on the wing, 
And moth-like stars were flickering out, 
I dropped the berry in a stream 
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor 
I went to blow the fire a-flame, 
But something rustled on the floor, 
And some one called me by my name; 
It had become a glimmering girl 
With apple blossom in her hair 
Who called me by my name and ran 
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering 
Through hollow lands and hilly lands, 
I will find out where she has gone, 
And kiss her lips and take her hands; 
And walk among long dappled grass, 
And pluck till time and times are done, 
The silver apples of the moon, 
The golden apples of the sun. 

Do you know any people like the "Lone Dog" — people who are cross and ill-tempered, who never want to play the games the others want and like to sulk in corners? No one likes such persons very well. Notice the interesting rhyming pattern in this poem.
 

I'M a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone; 
I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own;
I'm a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep; 
I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.
I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet, 
A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat, 
Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate, 
But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick and hate.
Not for me the other dogs, running by my side, 
Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide. 
O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best, 
Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!
 

The greatest blessing in the world is work. There is nothing much more difficult than to sit still and do nothing. Sometimes we are inclined to forget all this and complain because we have work to do. This poem should help to make us more cheerful and contented.
 

LET me but do my work from day to day,  
In field or forest, at the desk or loom,
In roaring market-place or tranquil room; 
Let me but find it in my heart to say, 
When vagrant wishes beckon me astray, 
"This is my work; my blessing, not my doom; 
Of all who live, I am the one by whom 
This work can best be done in the right way."

Then shall I see it not too great, nor small, 
To suit my spirit and to prove my powers; 
Then shall I cheerful greet the labouring hours, 
And cheerful turn, when the long shadows fall 
At eventide, to play and love and rest, 
Because I know for me my work is best.

It is not always the people who wear the most beautiful clothes who are beautiful within. What are you giving your soul to wear—"holy thoughts that star the night," and the '''safe-kept memory" of lovely things such as Miss Teasdale told us about; or do you give it only ugly things to wear? And do you remember, when you are trying to keep your thoughts fine and kind, that other people are trying too? This poem is full of sound words and color words and movement words. It is like a painting by Maxfield Parrish. Do you know his pictures when you see them?
 

MY Soul goes clad in gorgeous things,
Scarlet and gold and blue, 
And at her shoulder sudden wings 
Like long flames flicker through.

And she is swallow-fleet, and free 
From mortal bonds and bars. 
She laughs, because Eternity 
Blossoms for her with stars! 

O folk who scorn my stiff gray gown, 
My dull and foolish face, 
Can ye not see my Soul flash down, 
A singing flame through space?

And folk, whose earth-stained looks I hate, 
Why may I not divine 
Your Souls, that must be passionate, 
Shining, and swift as mine?