The star of love now shines above, Cool zephyrs crisp the sea; Among the leaves the wind-harp weaves Its serenade for thee. The star, the breeze, the wave, the trees, Their minstrelsy unite,...
The cannon is mute and the sword in its sheath Uncrimsoned the banner floats joyous and fair: Yet beauty is twining an evergreen wreath, And the voice of the minstrel is heard on the air....
These--the bright symbols of man's hope and fame, In which he reads his blessing or his curse-- Are syllables with which God speaks His name In the vast utterance of the universe.
The stars are mansions built by Nature's hand, And, haply, there the spirits of the blest Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest; Huge Ocean shows, within his yellow strand,...
And now, while the dark vast earth shakes and rocks In this wild dream-like snare of mortal shocks, How look (I muse) those cold and solitary stars On these magnificent, cruel wars?--...
You know Orien always comes up sideways. Throwing a leg up over our fence of mountains, And rising on his hands, he looks in on me Busy outdoors by lantern-light with something...
"Go," said the star to its light: "Follow your fathomless flight! Into the dreams of space Carry the joy of my face. Go," said the star to its light: "Tell me the tale of your flight." ...
A voice cried to me in a dawn of dreams, Saying, "Make haste: the webs of death and birth Are brushed away, and all the threads of earth Wear to the breaking; spaceward gleams...
"Ye states! and empires! nor of empires least, Though least in size, hear, Britain! thou whose lot, Whose final lot, is in the balance laid, Irresolutely play the doubtful scales,...
I Lived among great houses, Riches drove out rank, Base drove out the better blood, And mind and body shrank. No Oscar ruled the table, But I'd a troop of friends That knowing better talk had gone...
Who of all statesmen is his country's pride, Her councils' prompter and her leaders' guide? He speaks; the nation holds its breath to hear; He nods, and shakes the sunset hemisphere....
An empty bench, a sky of grayest etching, A bare, bleak shed in blackest silhouette, Twelve years of platform, and before them stretching Twelve miles of prairie glimmering through the wet. ...