All Things Uncomely And Broken, All Things Worn Out And Old, The Cry Of A Child By The Roadway, The Creak Of A Lum- Bering Cart, The Heavy Steps Of The Ploughman, Splashing The Wintry Mould, Are Wronging Your Image That Blossoms A Rose In The Deeps Of My Heart. The Wrong Of Unshapely Things Is A Wrong Too Great To Be Told; I Hunger To Build Them Anew And Sit On A Green Knoll Apart, With The Earth And The Sky And The Water, Re-Made, Like A Casket Of Gold For My Dreams Of Your Image That Blossoms A Rose In The Deeps Of My Heart.