What is it to grow old? Is it to lose the glory of the form, The lustre of the eye? Is it for beauty to forego her wreath? Yes, but not for this alone.
'Henri Heine', , 'tis here! The black tombstone, the name Carved there, no more! and the smooth, Swarded alleys, the limes Touch'd with yellow by hot Summer, but under them still...
In this lone, open glade I lie, Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand; And at its end, to stay the eye, Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees stand!
Silent, the Lord of the world Eyes from the heavenly height, Girt by his far-shining train, Us, who with banners unfurl'd Fight life's many-chanc'd fight Madly below, in the plain. ...
Through Alpine meadows soft-suffused With rain, where thick the crocus blows, Past the dark forges long disused, The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes. The bridge is cross'd, and slow we ride,...
He saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save. So rang Tertullian's sentence, on the side Of that unpitying Phrygian Sect which cried: "Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave, ...
Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill; Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes! No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed, Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats,...
Artist, whose hand, with horror wing'd, hath torn From the rank life of towns this leaf: and flung The prodigy of full-blown crime among Valleys and men to middle fortune born,...